It was kill or be killed.
It was also kill and be killed.
The PPSh gunner never felt the bullet that entered the back of his neck and added his own fatal contribution to the crimson montage in the snow.
Rettlinger stepped over the corpse and organised a small group of men to fill the latest hole in his line.
Through the snow gap came more Siberians, and Rettlinger charged, screaming and firing at the same time, the ST44 dropping each of the three men with none of them able to return a shot.
Drawing hard on the cold air. Derbo dropped to his knee at the entrance to the snowy walkway and fired off the rest of his magazine as two more Soviets sprung forward.
Two men of the initial rush were only wounded and their cries started to sound stronger and stronger, especially when Rettlinger stepped on one’s face.
One of Derbo’s men rushed up to assist his leader, pausing only to shoot both men in the head.
The Russian Front had taught harsh lessons and often harsh actions were the only answer, many a man had been lost when leaving a wounded enemy behind him, and the young Mountain trooper had no intention of allowing himself or his commander to be shot in the back.
Rettlinger changed out his magazine, conscious that it was his last one, and that it was already light by five rounds.
A grenade dropped perfectly in the entrance of the snowy walkway, causing both men to dive for cover.
The wait was awful.
‘Dud?’
Derbo posed the question to himself, even as he rolled away. He risked a look up at the entrance.
He yelled a warning, but the Siberian soldier there got off a shot with his rifle.
The Mosin bullet passed through the young Trooper’s pelvis, clipping the hip socket on its way through.
Howling with pain, he shot his opponent four times, the Gewehr 43 falling silent only because it was empty.
Gritting his teeth, the Mountain soldier rolled away and grabbed for another magazine.
He neither heard nor saw the grenade that killed him.
It had been poorly thrown, but its explosion propelled a deadly piece of metal through the left ear and into the German’s skull.
Rettlinger missed the death; he was quickly looking around, knowing he was losingthe fight, as more of his positions were becoming overrun with enemies.
He screamed and cursed as he watched the reduced reserve group rush forward, his eyes firmly fixed on Milke as the man’s body received multiple hits from an enemy DP weapon. His old comrade was thrown back into the advancing troopers, dead before he ever touched the ground.
“Bastards! Fucking bastards!”
Another grenade exploded in the snowy entrance, but only served to announce to Rettlinger that the enemy were coming again.
He shot the first man through, only wounding him, as the ST44 jammed.
Derbo struggled with the weapon until he was knocked aside by a heavy blow.
One of his men charged past him, firing an MG42 from the hip.
“Sorry Sturmbannfuhrer… but he was going to have you!”
Ackerman had deliberately knocked Derbo over to save him.
There was no time for further exchanges as Ackerman dropped to the snow and poured fire through the entrance and into Siberian soldiers still moving across No Man’s Land.
Rettlinger turned, guided by some sixth sense, his Walther in his hand.
The bullet struck the Soviet NCO in the chest, throwing him backwards, even as he drove the SVT-40 bayonet into the side of the Legion officer.
Rettlinger roared like a wounded bull and shot the dead man again.
A Legion bullet came from nowhere and slammed into Rettlinger’s shoulder, passing millimetre perfect through the gaps in the bones.
A hazy shape appeared in the smoke nearby, the rifle and long bayonet betraying the shadow’s allegiance.
The Walther barked twice and Rettlinger was rewarded with screaming, then silence.
Rettlinger coughed and blood rose in his throat.
Ackerman dropped by his side.
“Sturmbannfuhrer, I’m out of ammo. There’s hundreds of the red bastards and I can’t stop them now. Too exposed here. C’mon.”
He quickly tossed a grenade at the entranceway and helped Rettlinger to his feet, the officer’s uncomplicated flesh wound spilling huge quantities of blood down the greying-browny-white snowsuit.
The two staggered the thirty yards to the nearest friendly position, only to find one side of it alive with soldiers from both sides, rolling around in close combat.
Ackerman placed Rettlinger in a comfortable position, finding a Thompson and two clips for the weakening officer, before charging forward.
Blood-loss now started to tell, as the battle became less distinct and hazy to his eye. Rettlinger felt detached, almost a neutral observer of the events that unfolded.
Whilst part of his mind was still a soldier and tried to command his hands to pick up the Thompson, it lacked the energy and power to overcome the lethargy that was overpowering him.
So he watched as Sanders was pinned to the ground and stabbed repeatedly with bayonets.
He could barely manage a twitch when the grenade landed nearby, although part of his brain was alert enough to know he was about to die and then understand that he had been saved by someone leaping on the charge.
The brave soldier was lifted by a flash and bang, gutted and disembowelled by the force of the charge.
He had saved a number of his Kameraden by his selfless act, but it served no purpose in the end.
Rettlinger focussed on the soldier.
‘Fleischmann?’
The piece of flesh left steaming in the snow and blood had indeed once been called Willi-Jon Fleischmann.
The soldier-part of Derbo’s brain rallied and overcame adversity, commanding the Thompson to rise in his hands, but the flesh was weak; it was too heavy.
His right hand found the Walther he had tucked in his belt and an extraordinary effort brought it out and up.
Through the mist, Rettlinger sought a target but was unable to identify friend or foe for certain, until a man, shouting in a language he first heard five years beforehand, stood separate from the rest.
He fired the last two rounds and, even though the act exhausted him, he noticed that the shape had gone.
Astafiev tried to stop his men, shouting at them, grabbing at those in reach as they started killing men who had been wounded or bludgeoned into unconsciousness.
None of the Mountain troopers surrendered, and few were captured, save those cowed by their injuries.
Some of the Siberian soldiers heeded Astafiev’s entreaties, but others paid no attention.
He jumped on a raised area and shouted at his men.
The first Walther bullet passed through his lower stomach, nicking a kidney on its way out of his back.
The second bullet demolished his right knee.
The sight of their commanding officer falling to the snow simply encouraged the Siberians to greater excesses.
Astafiev moaned in pain, his stomach on fire, his right knee presenting him with the most excruciating pain.
Some of his men searched the enemy dead for medical supplies, desperate to find pain relief for their Commander, but there was none to be had, so they listened to him suffer.
Some men cried, not just for Astafiev, but also for the many old comrades and friends that lay still in the snow or gathered in the makeshift hospital area.
Other cried because they were mentally shattered, the savagery, and awfulness of the fight way beyond their previous experiences.
Others acted, determined that the greater suffering would be visited upon the legionnaires, the Germanski, recalling the recent horror stories of the mechanised infantrymen who had fought these German-legionnaires before.