Lenz handed the binoculars back, and gently gripped his NCO’s shoulder.
“Good work, Unterscharfuhrer.”
Sparing a quick look at his map, and checking that his view of the terrain supported the printed information, Lenz laid a quick plan.
SS troopers Schipper and Zimmerman were given a quick brief and, having divested themselves of anything remotely military, disappeared back down the ditch.
The remainder of the Kommando stayed alert, eyes fixed on their surroundings… watching… waiting…
To the second, Schipper and Zimmerman emerged from the woods to the south of the US position, draped over each other, laughing and giggling, staggering like men who had enjoyed a little too much of what the local hostelry had to offer.
Lenz switched his attention to the enemy position, where three heads were now clearly defined, and all focused on the noisy new arrivals.
SS Hauptsturmfuhrer Lenz clicked his fingers once and, with a simple palm movement, sent death on its way.
Four killers rose and ran at top speed, reducing the distance between them and their targets rapidly, their crouched run less defined with each step forwards, their weapons held tightly, ready for immediate use.
The lead figure, Emmering, threw himself forward as a head appeared to turn, the American’s mouth opening to shout a warning.
The rest of the murder squad fell upon the distracted GIs, and two seconds later, four beating hearts were forever stilled.
Like the professionals they were, the four SS soldiers took station in the position, scanning the countryside for threats.
The two drunks had ‘sobered up’ and met up with a comrade laden with their kit, the whole Kommando moving forward, across the road, heading for the relative safety of the woods.
The sound of the heavy engine reached all ears simultaneously, and the SS soldiers hit the ground, disappeared into whatever cover they could find, or continued to run for a distant position of safety.
It mattered not, and the annihilation of SS Kommando Lenz began.
“Shit! They’re the krauts! Let ’em have it!”
Hanebury grabbed the firing handles of the .30cal and let rip, the area around the bunker throwing up grass and earth as the bullets ripped through the air, and occasionally, flesh.
One of the four killers flopped to the floor, the top of his head waving like a bin lid over an empty skull cavity, the impact of three bullets sufficient to empty his head of anything remotely brain-like.
Emmering flew backwards, his left shoulder ruined by the passage of two more of Hanebury’s bullets.
The M3 halftrack’s heavier .50cal was working, and the SS Kommandos started to fall, as the gunner concentrated on those still running for cover.
Lenz screamed orders at his men, and then screamed in pain, as a heavy bullet blew his left hand off at the wrist.
A number of his men were down hard, but the others were starting to fight back, and the .30cal in the bunker position lashed out at the speeding vehicles.
Lewis Collier lost control of the command jeep as a .30cal and an SVT40 bullet struck simultaneously, one in each shoulder.
The jeep turned lazily and the front offside wheel stuck in a rut, rolling the vehicle and throwing the five occupants in all directions.
Collier’s left leg was snapped as the jeep’s windshield rolled across it, before the vehicle messily came to rest on top of one of the SS Kommandos’ bodies.
Hanebury, weaponless and in pain, the bones of his considerably shortened left arm protruding through a shattered wrist, rolled for cover as best he could, as Schipper and Zimmerman tried to finish the job the crash had started.
Raubach, still in possession of his rifle, took a steady aim and put a round into Zimmerman’s chest.
With a disbelieving look, he dropped to his knees, his chest welling with the vital fluids of life.
Unable to speak, he lost consciousness and dropped forward onto his face, almost like a man of faith at prayer.
He was dead before Raubach’s second round threw him to one side.
Hanebury dragged himself in beside the old German, his face grimacing with pain.
Acknowledging his presence with a nod, Lucifer sought and found the radio, and quickly determined that it was of no use, its damage clear and very terminal.
He risked a look at the firefight and grunted with satisfaction as his remaining vehicles took the fight to the enemy.
A German dragging a makeshift stretcher was hacked down, falling backwards onto the man he was trying to rescue.
The casualty, undoubtedly the man who needed the medicines Hanebury concluded, tried to drag himself off the litter into cover.
The halftrack swept through the SS position.
Hanebury winced as first the heavy wheels and then the tracks flattened the wounded man.
Jensen did not die.
But he did scream… and scream… his abdomen and pelvis smashed and crushed by the halftrack’s passing.
The Horch 1A had dropped off to one side, and its MG42, sounding like the proverbial ripping of cloth, ripped through three men in the tree line, killing each man with a minimum of four bullet hits.
Jensen’s screams were still the loudest thing on the battlefield and, if anything, grew louder as more feeling returned to his shattered body.
Hanebury scrabbled around for a weapon he could use with one good hand. He found his Thompson, bent almost at right angles at the magazine port, its wooden stock split, making it unusable.
A Garand lay invitingly close, but was irretrievable, the weight of the jeep holding it in position.
One of the Winchester 12 gauge shotguns stuck in the earth like a marker, and Hanebury shuffled across to grab it, clearing the impacted earth from its muzzle to make it fit for purpose.
As he and Raubach were distracted, the Horch took some heavy hits, killing two of Hanebury’s men, and causing lazy flames to work their way through the engine compartment.
Lenz moved as quickly as he could, dropping behind a piece of cover here or a corpse there, trying to get close to Jensen, who’s tortured wails were increasing.
The halftrack’s ma-deuce churned up the ground around his feet, ripping off a boot heel and taking a chunk out of his right calf.
The Kommando leader fell into an inviting hollow and, head in the earth, examined his options… option… to fight… surrender was not an option.
Half his men were down, if not more, but the enemy had suffered too.
The screaming from the destroyed Jensen grew deafening, and Lenz determined to end the soldier’s suffering.
Sliding up to the edge of the hollow, he gripped his PPSh, steadier on the earth, and fired a short burst, shattering the wounded man’s skull and neck.
Jensen died instantly.
Incensed, and close to losing control, Lenz rose up and yelled at his men.
Almost instantly, the SS soldiers got lucky.
Art Nave, driving the M3, took a bullet in the head. The ricochet hit the side of the vision slit and ploughed into his right temple. Nave went out like a light and the half-track drove into a tree, sending the occupants flying.
A Soviet grenade fell into the rear compartment, killing one MP and a German helper, and putting the rest out of the fight.
Lenz sensed victory, and urged his men forward.
Weiss, leading the surge, dropped to the ground, his ruined neck spurting blood with every weakening beat of his heart.
Trying to sit up, Weiss tried to shout at the men moving towards him, the very effort of turning his head causing his damaged jugular to give way, causing catastrophic blood loss.
His eyes glazed over and he died, his face still displaying a snarl as it thumped into the ground.