Nearest to the 4e RACE positions, Knocke heard the tell-tale fizz of an X-7 being fired and was immediately drawn to the position, knowing that the missile would not have been expended on a light tank or an armoured car.
The 6th GIBTR had shifted round after its failures on the ridgeline, and now advanced on better ground towards the thin line of defenders, minus another IS-IV, struck down by the unerring aim of Peters, the miracle worker.
The imbalance of forces was obvious, and Knocke’s brain shouted out for a solution.
“Hässelbach!”
The NCO arrived before his name had echoed away.
“Double back to Lieutenant Tüpper and tell him I need thirty of his men here, right now, with AT weapons! Plus, get Lohengrin mobile and tell Köster he’ll be up against Stalin tanks.”
Hässelbach was leaping away as Knocke turned back to his front and sought a place he could sit down and have a quiet moment to himself whilst he waited for the reserve force to arrive.
An old chair met his gaze, missing one leg but still carefully usable, and he settled himself down to gather his thoughts and steel himself for what he was sure was to come…
…and jerked awake.
‘Mein Gott! What have I done!’
Unbelievably, he had fallen asleep.
He cursed himself in a silent and unforgiving scream of rage, knowing he had let every man in his command down by his actions.
Knocke sat up and then struggled to stand as he was neatly positioned between two pieces of brickwork.
Finally struggling upright but feeling decidedly wobbly on his feet, Knocke looked around to see if anyone had noticed his indiscretion…and immediately ducked in self-preservation.
Three Soviet soldiers were almost through the front line and on top of his position, having slipped through between the ruins unseen by Peters’ force.
“Alarm!”
Least he thought he shouted a warning.
He couldn’t hear anything.
The MP-40 was slung around his shoulder as it had been since he had decided to remain fighting with his men rather than escape, and now it refused to come round and act in preservation of his life.
The strap had caught on his holster and no amount of pulling would allow the sub machine-gun to come free.
The three Russians had already risen up, determined to silence the single enemy who had spotted them, hopefully before anyone else noticed the struggle.
That intent saved Knocke’s life, as they declined to use their weapons in order to maintain a tenuous grip on secrecy.
Feeling a momentary panic, the old soldier forced himself into a second’s calm and he grabbed for his holster, which, with the MP-40s strap around it, denied him access to his automatic.
Other choices were denied him as the first man was nearly upon him. SKS rifle held out in front of him with bayonet aimed directly at Knocke’s chest.
Fate took a hand, or rather moved something, as the man pressed down on a piece of rubble causing another part to shift.
He lost his footing and crashed headfirst into another unforgiving piece of masonry.
The SKS flew at Knocke like a missile and struck his thigh, before falling just to one side.
The blow stung and water formed in his eyes, but the gift of a gun was too much to ignore and he swept the unfamiliar weapon up in his hands and turned to meet his new assailant.
The two Soviet motorcycle troopers arrived together and crashed into Knocke with no attempt to bayonet or club him; simply to put him down with brute force.
They succeeded, and the trio of bodies slammed into sharp and solid masonry.
One of the Russians gasped as a rib gave way, but the other landed sympathetically, only grazing his cheek and knuckles.
Knocke felt his ankle twist, and the blow in the small of his back brought on an instant stabbing pain that made him catch his breath.
He rolled instinctively and heard the butt of the enemy soldier’s weapon hit the rubble with force.
“Alarm! Alarm!”
He shouted as best he could, but the exertions of rolling around to avoid the rifle butt robbed him of much of his power. At least he could now hear himself shout, albeit breathlessly.
He stopped rolling, held in place by the strap of the MP-40, which was stuck under an immovable piece of wall.
“Scheisse!”
The Russian fell directly on top of him and his lifeblood flowed across Knocke’s face and into his eyes and mouth.
He felt his neck muscles protest as his chin was forced upwards at an odd angle.
“Get that piece of shit off him!”
The words came from someone else, the someone who had put two bullets through the back of the Russian’s head and saved Knocke’s life.
Daylight was restored as the carcass was dragged off him and willing hands dragged Knocke to his feet.
Walter Riedler, now a much-decorated sergeant and recently returned from an NCO’s course in France, commanded the group of men sent back by Tüpper.
It was he who had downed the man preparing to kill his commander.
The irony of that was not wasted on Knocke, even in his dishevelled and exhausted state, for it was the young soldier Riedler who had once saved the life of his long gone friend, Von Arnesen, a lifetime ago.
“Thank you, Sergent Riedler… thank you.”
The wounded Russian grunted then gurgled as one of the ex-SS soldiers kicked him hard in the throat, and the man struggled for air as the swelling shut off his airway.
He died without attracting any further attention.
“You were very lucky, Oberführer… really very lucky.”
“Yes, I can see that, Sergent. Good shot, I think.”
“I meant the mortar shell, Oberführer. Was really close. We thought you were dead.”
“Mortar shell?”
“Yes. I saw you relaxing so waited for my men to catch up and then boom… mortar shell… must have landed a few feet away from you… sent the chair right over that way. You went up and came back down. Then after a few seconds you got up and the Russians arrived. Couldn’t shoot for fear of hitting you. Then you were down, he was up.”
Knocke hadn’t fallen asleep, which was actually and strangely more of a relief than the fact that he had hadn’t been killed.
“Thank you again, Sergent. We’ll talk after the battle, but for now, get your men over to Peters and make sure you hold.”
Riedler nodded and waved his men forward, the whole group rattling past at the double.
“And watch out for infiltrators. There may be more of them!”
The last man raised his hand in acknowledgement and the reinforcement group moved out of sight.
He felt hands tugging at his MP-40 and sling, as Hässelbach worked to free both weapons from the leather’s grasp.
He hadn’t even realised that his ‘bodyguard’ was there.
“You were luck, Oberführer.”
“So I’m told, Hässelbach.”
“Must be your lucky day, Oberführer.”
“Somehow I doubt that!”
He hoped he would be alive when sunset visited itself upon the Polish village, just to see the truth of it.
“Ready?”
“When you are, Comrade Mayor.”
The motorcycle unit’s attack had stalled, mainly because the tanks had failed to get up and support.
Two of Stelmakh’s tanks were hit, one of them flaming like a Bunsen burner, the second smoking lazily, but both equally dead, although the second had disgorged three shocked and wounded men who found safety with the infantry.
Now it was his decision to lead, as his last few tank commanders seemed reluctant to try again.
“Load HE.”
The metallic clang as shell entered breach and the weapon was prepared were set against a strained silence, as they all knew that ‘Krasny Suka’ was about to take the biggest of risks.