The foremost halftrack spilled part of its human contents, many of whom were bloodied by the passage of the armour-piercing bullets through their vehicle. Six men remained inside the smoking wreck.
None the less, Din could see that his flank would be lost in short order.
Again, his eyes moved to the other side of the Zinsel, desperate to find the glow of red flares, but finding only the mix of white snow and grey smoke.
In desperation, he gave voice to his thoughts.
“Come on, Burastov! For all our fucking sakes, come on!”
On the small height above the Zinsel, all was bloody chaos as death and horror strode the hasty positions of the Rangers’ Baker Company.
1st Lieutenant Barkmann was in a world of his own.
No sound, save a gentle buzzing in his ears, his stunned senses even managing to partially mask the vibrations of nearby explosions, so disoriented was he by the glancing blow from a Soviet rifle butt.
His attacker had perished to another Ranger, who in turn had died to a bayonet thrust from behind.
Barkmann’s eyes took everything in as his brain struggled to comprehend the images, whilst it also tried to regain a modicum of control over the stunned officer’s arms and legs.
It failed on all counts.
However, the concussion did not prevent Barkmann from seeing the horrors in front of him and, occasionally, feel a glimmer of recognition of a face.
Corporal Thomas Ward presented such a horror, rolling around with a Soviet soldier, both men intent on strangling each other, hands and arms bent for the sole purpose of throttling the life from the other man.
A moment of recognition flared in Barkmann’s mind as Ward’s face bulged and changed colour, the Russian’s greater strength proving vital in the struggle.
The smallest part of Barkmann’s brain screamed at him to do something, encouraging an extraordinary effort to save Ward, but it remained unheard amidst the greater mists of his injury.
Ward died.
Another man, a new arrival in the Ranger Battalion, fell to his knees in front of Barkmann, his chest ravaged by a burst from a submachine gun.
The man looked almost offended and affronted that he had been shot.
The corpse toppled forward, falling so that the head smashed face first into Barkmann’s left foot, causing his recent sprain to announce its presence once more.
A Soviet officer appeared on the edge of the position, waving his pistol and encouraging his men forward.
Barkmann watched in befuddled fascination, almost in slow motion, as red weals sprang up on the man’s body, the impacts throwing the wounded man back from where he came.
Drawing on everything he could muster, Barkmann started trying to get his mind back on track, trying to ease himself into a more upright position.
His efforts were thwarted by a heavy impact on his right side, two struggling men smashing into him as each tried to gain the upper hand.
They fell to the ground, one on top of the other, the Ranger underneath coming off far worse. The Russian drove his elbow into the American’s solar plexus as they fell, the combination of the impact with the ground and the weight of the Soviet soldier causing internal damage and driving the breath from the Ranger.
Holding the disabled American in place with one hand, the Soviet soldier brought out his knife and stabbed the helpless man repeatedly in the chest and throat, continuing long after life had left the farm boy from Indiana.
Barkmann felt the start of some sort of functional control returning, and he tested his belief with an act of great concentration, willing his body to try to sit up.
The effort failed, but his limbs started to move in some resemblance of the orders they were being sent.
In front of him, an enemy soldier screamed, a bullet thumping into his lower abdomen, doubling the man over in pain.
The screams continued, burning further into Barkmann’s recovering senses and, surprisingly, not hindering but helping the process of his mental return.
He sat up and started to take in the bigger picture.
There were wounded men from both sides, in and around the position.
The cries of more wounded and dying men made themselves known as the recovery of his senses accelerated.
Those same senses announced that he could now hear, but that they also believed that they were now less assaulted with the noises of battle.
Which was true.
The firing had stopped.
Brigadier-General Pierce was still not happy.
The position at Dahlem had been taken, but the schedule was all to cock. The resistance had not been so easily swept aside as had been anticipated, the main reasons being the larger number of Soviet troops than had been expected, and the fact that they fought like mad dogs.
Another factor contributing to his unhappiness were the casualty figures that were filtering through.
18th Armored Infantry had taken relatively light hits, except, for some reason, the hierarchy was ravaged.
By all accounts, the brief tenure of the latest commander of the armored infantry was terminated when he was relieved by the Battalion Intelligence Officer. The Captain in question was presently on his way to the rear in a straightjacket, having suffered a mental collapse.
The Rangers had taken some heavy blows and over a company were either on their way to hospital or awaiting the ministrations of the graves registration units. Again, a lot of the leadership talent had suffered, although not the high level of dead that had ravaged the 18th.
Offset his own numbers against what was near to a full Red Army battalion removed from the communist’s order of battle, and Pierce should have been happy.
Pierce and Greiner worked the map and savoured the fresh coffee, perked up with a nip of something that one of the men had produced to ward off the increasingly chill.
“We can’t afford to hang around here, Ed. We’ve lost time. Should be here?”
He indicated a position on the map, seeking confirmation of his interpretation of the timetable.
“Yes, Sir. We can press on immediately. The arty’s already moving up, ready to support.”
Pierce drained the last dregs of the warming concoction.
“Excellent. Now, contact 18th and tell ’em to swiftly manage the prisoners. Get our MP’s moving up a-sap to take ’em off their hands. But tell the 18th that I want them moving forward on their route of advance within ten minutes and no later.”
Greiner made the usual notes.
“The Rangers took the bigger hit, so tell Williams to shake out and expand his ground the other side of the Zinsel, up to Route 59… right flank on the Wullbach… here… left to the 6… here… but not to get involved in anything at Imbsheim yet. Reform his hurt units into something he can use and sort out his prisoners a-sap. We’re not hanging around.”
The pencil waggled, recording the orders.
Greiner posed the question.
“The armor’s nearly up, Sir. You gonna give ’em their head now?”
Smiling as his mug was being refilled, Pierce considered the idea.
“No, I think not. Keep their fuel topped off and let the 18th close Imbsheim. If they ain’t needed there, then we cut them loose. I wanna hold them as long as possible, keep them organised, on line, and raring to go, Ed. Kapische?”
“Jawohl, Herr General.”
Pierce spluttered as the involuntary laugh clashed with the process of swallowing the hot liquid.
“Goddamnit Ed! What’ve I told you about trying to be funny in my presence!”
“I can’t immediately recall, Sir. Now, I’ll attend to these orders.”