by Gee, Colin
“OK, Colonel Harper, your companies will take over responsibility for this northern area from,” he squinted at the writing, “Guttecoven into North Sittard here.”
Harper nodded, understanding and already working on the movement.
“Crisp, that means you can use your relieved units as a reserve. Added to Fox, that should give you three companies in total.”
Fig #61 - Soviet Assault developments, Sittard-Geleen, Holland.
Crisp did not bother to remind the General that a company was only a company in name, as battle had taken its toll on the numbers.
“I want one of these under my command as my personal reserve, as soon as possible.”
“Yes Sir,” Crisp’s eyes already transmitting his order to the commander of Able Company. The man nodded his understanding.
“Right then, Gentlemen. We can do nothing fancy, but that doesn’t mean that we can’t take advantage when the opportunity presents itself. Be aggressive when you can, try and keep them on guard and worrying about what we are going to do.”
He accepted the general low mumbling as agreement and understanding.
“We have no room to trade here, so we must stand where we are now. Every man that can hold a gun, or throw a grenade, must be in the field.”
Almost as if suddenly realising the predicament the force was in, Higgins wearily ran his hand over his forehead, taking a moment’s pause.
“The Dutch authorities have already offered to help where they can. I have agreed that their people can help move our supplies where they can, and take our seriously wounded back to the aid stations.”
“Some have military experience and will even fight.”
Von der Heydte sneezed.
“Gesundheit!”
“Danke, Herr Oberst.”
Crisp returned the German’s grin, although part of him felt he shouldn’t.
‘Carentan.’
“Return to your units, and get the changes done immediately, Report in constantly. I want no surprises like we had at Gangelt ok? No retreat. Questions?”
There were none.
In the end, it was quite straightforward.
They would hold at all costs, or they would go under.
1529hrs, Tuesday, 23rd October 1945, Allied frontline positions at Urmond, Holland.
“Mon dieu!”
The artillery barrage swept up and over the defenders, transforming the already battered Dutch village into a moonscape of holes and rubble, shattered wood and piled earth, all liberally decorated with the body parts of the Belgian and German defenders, and their civilian Dutch helpers.
Captain Alain Cirisse, the commander of the Belgian Battalion’s 3rd Compagnie, was an interested observer, undistracted by his present predicament. His men worked swiftly in the area around him, not realising that he still lived. Some recovered and repositioned the machine gun, knocked over by the force of the shell that had demolished the building, dropping tons of brick and cement on top of the position in which Cirisse sheltered.
Attempting to escape the collapse, the Belgian Army officer, and former resistance fighter, had nearly made it, until a large chunk of wall smashed him down, crushing his legs, and pinning him to the roadway.
His Sten gun lay next to him, pristine, untouched by the passage of tons of building.
The damaged machine-gun opened up again, its tracers probing the sodden air, the downpour the same, if not slightly increasing.
Soviet tanks moved carefully forward, wary of the Panzerfaust that had already claimed a number of their comrades.
Stopping to fire at a safe distance, they put shell after shell into the defending positions.
A 90mm anti-aircraft gun, emplaced across the canal in Urmond, took up the challenge, smashing one of the T34’s with its first shot.
The tanks moved forward, into the lee of a large building, from where they continued to put accurate rounds into the Allied lines, whilst their flank was protected from the fire of the big American gun.
A German paratrooper took his chance and popped out of a manhole, putting his Panzerfaust on target, knocking the Soviet tank battalion’s commander out of the fight, along with the entire crew.
A hull machine-gun lashed out at the tank killer, bullets striking home and sending him tumbling down into the sewer below.
Cirisse felt nothing below the waist now, his legs completely crushed and numb, the anaesthetic nature of the cold rain helping to kill the pain.
The machine-gun crew next to him were taken out by a mortar shell, the three men badly wounded and out of the fight.
Soviet mortars increased their rate of fire as the infantry moved in front of the T34’s, pushing forward to protect their armoured colleagues from the deadly anti-tank weapons.
The mix of Belgian fusiliers and German paratroopers stood their ground, pouring fire into the advancing Russians.
The guardsmen crouched lower, and continued to move forward, the downpour helping to obscure much of their movement, although many of their number were shot down.
Again, the T34’s moved forward, tucking in behind the knots of infantry.
The mortars halted their fire, fearing friendly casualties, pushing the barrage up to concentrate on preventing enemy reinforcements from getting forward.
Cirisse now started to feel the pain again, the numbing effect of the cool water overcome by the severity of his injuries.
Gritting his teeth, he tried to pull himself from under the wreckage, almost screaming as his exertions produced some forward movement, and he felt his flesh tear on the rough edges.
A Soviet guardsman, wounded and scared, saw the struggling Belgian officer and went for the easy kill.
The bullet struck the road in front of Cirisse and clipped his ear on its way past.
Despite his pain, Cirisse swept up his Sten and was more accurate in returning fire. The wounded Russian was thrown back into a deep puddle, the escaping blood creating a swirl of colour in the brown water.
He quickly drowned.
The front line was a mess of orange and red, brown and black, as sub-machine guns and grenades threw up mud and blood, the Russians trying their best to close with the defenders, the Belgians and Germans trying equally hard to keep the enemy at arm’s length.
A DP team dropped to the road, oblivious to the presence of the wounded Cirisse, so intent were they on firing into the flank of the defenders.
Again, the Sten gun chattered away, and the two men were hit. The machine-gunner died face down in the gutter, the single bullet having smashed into the back of his neck.
The loader, howling with pain, his ankle shattered, got off a hasty shot with his Mosin rifle.
Cirisse emptied the Sten gun into the man, who fell back against his comrade, his eyes wide open in horror and fear, full of disbelief that his life’s blood was escaping from the holes across his chest and abdomen.
It was beyond the now exhausted Cirisse to reload the Sten, and he painfully eased the Browning Hi-Power out of its holster.
With a magazine holding thirteen rounds of 9mm, the Hi-Power was a serious handgun, capable of putting an enemy down at fifty metres.
Unfortunately, in this instance, the enemy was encased in Soviet steel. The killing of the DP crew had been witnessed by the commander of T34 3882 of the 5th Guards Mechanised Corps.
Bouncing over the scattered bricks on the road, 3882 completed the work started by the collapsed building, and Captain Cirisse became a red smear on the track of the Soviet vehicle.
The Soviet attack surged forward, and the Belgians and Germans had no choice but to withdraw, their position now outflanked on both sides.
1703hrs, Tuesday, 23rd October 1945, Allied frontline positions at Guttecoven, Holland.
The remaining 327th Glider boys had taken over, relieving the 501st’s 1st Battalion, and they had immediately faced an onslaught.
The attacking Soviet infantry had been flayed and sent packing, the high water mark of their failed assault
clearly marked by numerous still forms.
Soviet artillery, enjoying the liberty offered by the awful weather, pounded the small village, and neighbouring Limbricht, causing more casualties amongst the exhausted glider troops.
Colonel Harper toured the positions, encouraging his men, checking on their welfare, all the time with an eye to the north, and the enemy lines.
1707hrs, Tuesday, 23rd October 1945, Soviet frontline positions north of Guttecoven, Holland.
“Govno! Govno! Govno!”
Colonel Artem’yev had seen some serious fighting in this new war but this was the first time he stared defeat in the face.
His regiment, the 179th Guards, had started the campaign at a good strength, over eighteen hundred sons of Russia, all soldiers with experience gained in the harshest combat.
After the severe battles on the road to Wurzburg, an advance that had culminated in the encounter with the American Armored Command at Rauschenberg, the 179th was on its last legs, less than a third of its men still standing, the rest spread evenly between aid stations and cold graves.
The first attack on Guttecoven had been a hasty affair, ordered by a Divisional Commander under pressure from above.
Another hundred of Artem’yev’s men had paid the price of the General’s folly, some fifty-nine now lay bleeding in the aid stations to the rear, forty-one left inert on the Dutch soil.
The field telephone rang.
Eyes blazing, the angry commander snatched the receiver up.
“Artem’yev.”
Those standing nearby could hear every word.
“Polkovnik, if you want to keep your fucking head, stir those fucking girls of yours into action, and take that fucking village. I want no excuses. Understand?”
Artem’yev’s knuckles went white around the receiver.
“General Karamyshev. I just lost one hundred men for nothing. Another frontal attack like that is nothing short of stupidity. I need time to ...”
“You need no such fucking thing, Polkovnik. The Amerikanski are collapsing. I’m ordering you to make another attack. By 1800, you will be in possession of Guttecoven. Am I clear?”
A deep breath controlled Artem’yev’s rage sufficiently for him to reply, although it failed to hide his anger from the commander of 59th Guards Rifle Division.
“Comrade General, I will send my men forward, but not in some foolish gesture, ordered by someone sat at a comfortable desk. I need artillery support and I need armour. Without them, I will lose what’s left of my regiment in front of that Dutch village.”
The silence was electric.
Slowly, in measured angry tones, the commanding General replied.
“Comrade Artem’yev. The 179th Regiment will attack, and will take Guttecoven, completing its capture by 1800hrs at the latest. Acknowledge that order.”
“Give me the tanks and guns, Comrade General.”
“Do it with what you have, Artem’yev, or I’ll find someone who will, and you will answer for your fucking failures.”
Artem’yev laughed, a laugh without humour, the sort that the mad emit just before they go berserk.
“One hundred of men have already answered for my failures, Comrade General. I owe it to them not to fail again. Now, I need tanks and artillery.”
“Pass the telephone to PodPolkovnik Fyokhlachev immediately.”
Extending the hand holding the telephone, Artem’yev looked at his second in command with a forced smile.
“The General wishes to speak to you.”
Taking the receiver in his good hand, Fyokhlachev took his time before speaking.
“PodPolkovnik Fyokhlachev here, Comrade General.”
“Ah Fyokhlachev. You are now regimental commander and temporary Polkovnik. You will attack Guttecoven as soon as possible, and be in possession of the village by 1800 latest. You will first arrest that imbecile there, and place him under guard until the NKVD come for him. Have you understood your orders, Polkovnik Fyokhlachev?”
“I have understood your instructions quite clearly, Comrade General.”
“Excellent, Fyokhlachev. Now...”
Standing slightly more upright, the Lieutenant Colonel looked directly into his commander’s eyes as he spoke to the man on the other end of the line.
“I have understood your instructions, but I am unable to carry them out, Comrade General. Comrade Polkovnik Artem’yev is absolutely correct. An attack without tanks and artillery would be suicidal.”
“This is fucking mutiny! Obey my orders, Fyokhlachev!”
Very deliberately, the phone was passed back to the signalman who, like the rest of the staff in the 179th’s headquarters, sat wide-eyed and speechless at what had just happened.
“Thank you, Nikita, although I fear you may just have signed your own death warrant.”
2010hrs, Tuesday, 23rd October 1945, Allied frontline positions at Geleen, Holland.
Von der Heydte knew the Fallschirmjager were on borrowed time; the pressure on his regiment was building, as his ability to deal with it reduced, the casualties mounting by the minute.
His positions in the rail yards had shrunk, drawing closer in towards the centre of Geleen, but they still held the Soviet infantry and tanks at bay, although the supply of Panzerfaust was nearly exhausted.
One of his best friends had led a counter-attack, restoring the positions lost when the Belgian fusiliers had been overrun at Urmond. His friend had died, along with many men from the old days.
Picking up his MP40 and pulling his white peaked cap more tightly onto his head, he moved quickly out of the Hotel Normandie, the building in which he had set his headquarters.
The sound of increased firing greeted him as he emerged into the driving rain, the water immediately making him feel cold. He spared a moment to look up at the sign, the irony not wasted on him.
“Head toward the sound of the guns, Kameraden.”
The small group of staff and lightly wounded men took off after their commander, jogging steadily northeast, to where a serious fight was taking place.
Von der Heydte’s last reserve was committed to the fight.
Soviet artillery had just taken a big hit.
Eisenhower had grabbed units from all over the frontline, and sent them to the threatened area, gradually forming some sort of defensive line on the Maas.
Part of that defence was the 309th Field Artillery Battalion; a 155m equipped artillery unit that still retained enough of the deadly ‘Long Toms’ to bring down a world of hurt on the artillery of the 5th Guards Mechanised Corps.
The 122mm Howitzers of the 355th Guards Artillery Regiment were busy pounding Geleen, preparing the way for a huge assault aimed between the two Dutch towns.
Using the methods developed and refined over the past two months, the 309th put a mix of high explosive and air burst on top of the Soviet artillery regiment.
Each of the nine 155’s put eight shells into the area occupied by the twenty-four 122mm, two full batteries of the Soviet heavy howitzers.
355th Guards ceased to be an effective force, the destruction widespread, the survivors mentally shattered by such accurate fire.
Switching their fire to a likely supply route, the 309th put more shells into the air.
Their first target was clear of enemy forces, the only casualties being four Dutch civilians in Vaesrade.
Their second choice fell amongst a horsed supply column of the 25th Guards Mechanised Brigade, wreaking havoc on the unfortunate beasts, and killing many of the supply troops.
Men from the 3rd Battalion rushed back to help, tending the wounded, and shooting the maimed horses.
The 1st and 2nd Battalions attacked Geleen, smashing into Von der Heydte’s exhausted paratroopers.
The Fallschirmjager Commander threw himself behind the body of a dead Dutch civilian.
“Mein Gott!”
The experienced German paratroopers all dropped into cover immediately, disappearing to ground, at the very moment that the squ
ad of Soviet Guardsmen had burst around the corner.
Bullets flew, the majority striking Russian flesh, as Von der Heydte’s group tackled the small breakthrough efficiently.
The Russian survivors turned and ran.
Moving forward quickly, the paratroopers made the same corner, checking around it carefully, expecting more trouble.
As they moved over those they had shot down, their battle experience made them check the bodies for signs of life.
Two of the Russians were still in the land of the living, so a pitiless Gefreiter killed each with a single shot to the forehead.
Around the corner, the Russians that had escaped were stood with their hands up, five men desperate to live.
They had run straight into a small German force that had been sent back to hunt them down.
Von der Heydte motioned his group forward, his eyes away from the surrendering Soviet guardsmen, therefore only hearing the telltale sound of a PPSh firing.
He snapped his head back to find the prisoners falling dead to the road, the PPSh still spitting bullets as they hit the paving.
“NO!”
It was too late.
The Lieutenant Colonel strode forward.
The killer, a senior NCO, clicked to attention to report.
“Herr Oberstleutnant, I beg to report that the prisoners tried to escape, and were shot.”
Both men knew that was not true.
“Oberfeldwebel Bosicki, never again, clear?”
More heavy firing drew a line under the matter, and the two groups of paratroopers moved back to the frontline positions.
The fighting became more desperate.
The blood obscured his vision.
The wounds, although nothing much, bled profusely, and the blood ran down his face, soaking into the neck of his tunic.
A PTRD anti-tank rifle bullet had struck the corner of the wall behind which Von der Heydte had been hiding, missing him, but creating enough projectile stone fragments to transform the paratrooper’s face into a mask of red.