Rettlinger was startled from his snooze by firing near at hand, certainly within his perimeter.
Whilst his body, still recovering from its wounds, was normally stiff and took some while to get organised, the adrenalin flushed into his system and permitted rapid action.
Derbo strode to the door and took a look outside, and was immediately presented with the awful vision of a desperate close-quarter fight rolling around one of his anti-tank gun positions.
He turned back to his staff.
“Get a warning out that we are being overrun by enemy troops… Norbert at Neuwiller first… then Corps… no… General Pierce’s headquarters. You,” he pointed at three of his young officers, “Follow me!”
The situation at the 75mm PAK position was clearly being resolved in the Legion’s favour, but another pressing issue presented itself.
Two of his Legionnaires were shot down as they ran from a house on the edge of the position, the windows of the building suddenly alive with muzzles spitting bullets.
Derbo dropped down beside a pair of soldiers operating an MG42, set up to defend the headquarters.
“Ackerman… that building there… keep it under fire.”
The gunner followed Rettlinger’s arm motion and pulled the weapon over in a small arc.
Quickly making a decision, Derbo continued.
“Watch for our counter-attack… from the left there.”
The snow-covered barn seemed perfect cover to concentrate an attack force. The blown snow had also formed a white wall high enough for the Legionnaires to get close at the run, and without having to crouch.
“Understood, Sturmbannfuhrer.”
The ex-SS soldiers always seemed to slip back into their former rank structure during moments of stress.
The 415th had spent a few hours in the company of survivors from the 412th Mechanised Brigade, from whom they had heard of the brutal actions of their opponents, excessive even for the hated SS. Their anger grew and grew with every new story.
They brought it all to the Battle of La Petite Pierre.
In the two-storey house that Rettlinger had selected, fighting was still in progress on the upper floor, where six of his soldiers valiantly resisted all attempts to force the landing, which open space was littered with dead and dying Siberian infantry.
Incensed, they scaled the exterior as best they could, and stormed into the occupied spaces, overrunning the defence.
The two men who survived the assault were hacked to pieces with knives and spades in a frenzy of revenge.
Meanwhile, Rettlinger assembled a scratch force to counter-attack.
The MG42 did its work magnificently, slashing at any movement in the windows, and keeping the defenders cooped up.
Rettlinger had gathered a dozen men to him. His three officers, eight of his Legionnaires, and a French war correspondent who had attached himself to the Legion Battalion.
His protestations ended when Derbo removed his camera and replaced it with an American grease gun.
“There’s no fucking civilians today, newspaper man. It’s kill or be fucking killed. Stick with us, and remember who’s side your on!”
He quickly sketched out a plan, and the small group attacked, intent on implementing a swift and violent assault.
Before they set off on Spectrum Black, one of Derbo’s NCOs had ‘acquired’ a case of British No 77 grenades from a Spanish infantry unit’s supply dump. Each man in the group, not including the reporter, had two.
Four were used to create a smoke screen, greyish-white smoke mixing with the snow to create an almost continuous vista of nothingness.
Avoiding the centre of the developing smoke, the group rushed forward, each window receiving at least one of the white phosphorus smoke grenades, whose other ability was to encourage fire.
With four of his men acting as a security force, Derbo oversaw the slaughter, as Soviet infantrymen tumbled out of doors and windows, driven out by the unforgiving smoke and growing flames.
Each was shot down without mercy, even the Correspondent relishing his turn in the killing.
The security force established themselves in a small position to the front of the burning house, as Rettlinger led his reduced group towards the anti-tank position.
Checking that the gun was still capable of being used, and that the enemy had been driven off, he took his group back to his headquarters.
Lavalle, until recently stretched out on a pile of cushions salvaged from the wrecked lounge furniture, wiped the sleep from his eyes, and tried to get into the operations area without bashing into too many sharp edges.
Summoned by one of his Lieutenants, he arrived in the midst of organised panic, as Derbo’s message had been followed by others, all indicating a major Soviet counter-attack in progress.
A coffee was pressed into his hand, the orderly so intent on moving on quickly that he knocked the steaming mug, causing a surge of brown liquid to splash up his commander’s shirt, scalding the skin underneath.
Lavalle did not notice, his attention fully focussed on the situation map that was in a state of flux, his staff correcting and adding information with each new report.
The same Lieutenant who had so rudely awakened him presented him with a written message.
It was from Molyneux and he expected it to be about as much use as a chocolate fireguard.
He was right.
‘Resolve the situation immediately… Counter-attack… Push back the enemy…la la la… You’re a fucking idiot, mon General.’
The message found its way into the round metal ‘filing cabinet’ that the clerks emptied every couple of hours or so.
“Get me General Pierce.”
“Right, listen in, people!”
Pierce’s voice brought an instant quiet to the chaos.
“General Lavalle’s ordered us to hold in place pretty much everywhere, create a mobile reserve force in case the enemy needs his fat ass moving outta our positions, and hang on tight to Camerone and Alma on our southern border there.”
He pointed at the map and eyes automatically followed his gesture.
“We also got us another mission. Some of our Legion friends have gotten into a whole heap of trouble at Dossenheim, Petite Pierre, and Neuwiller. You can see that we can’t let that stand.”
Moving closer to the main map, he tapped each location in turn.
“If the commies overrun those points then we are in deep shit… and I do mean deep shit.”
He looked at Greiner, just back from the radios. He raised an eyebrow of enquiry and was greeted with a shake of the head.
‘Godfuckingdamnit!’
“We’ve no contact with Dossenheim, so we gotta assume that we’ll have to push the Reds out of it. That’s where we’ll focus our main force.”
He listed many of the small units that had been held in reserve, a tank platoon here, a mechanised infantry platoon there.
“Get them formed up and on the road a-sap. We should have air today, which will help for sure. Now, the boss is sending a full RCT from the 2nd Indian Head to bust through to Petit Pierre from the north.”
He turned back to the map to consider Neuwiller and La Petite Pierre.
“Ok, so maybe they will get there in time, but seems to me they’ve some hard yards there, and the enemy ain’t getting any sweeter.”
Pierce leant over the map again.
“So, I believe it will fall to us to do both the deeds, and we need to scare up some assets.”