Fighting in Barmbek, Eilbek, Uhlenhorst, and Hamm drained the fighting battalions, although they gave a good account of themselves.
But it had been St Georg that had proved the costliest of all.
The 1st Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry had been smashed in an unexpected combination of heavy defence and counter-attack, that left the battalion leaderless and below 40% effective strength.
The absence of their commander, Lieutenant Colonel Henry Howard, was keenly felt, and Haugh spared a silent moment to wish the badly wounded man well.
“Right, gentlemen. Thank you for coming. I know you and your men are tired, but we must press on, and Uncle Joe’s boys are equally at their wits end, and without supply and reinforcement.”
He leant over the map, encouraging the ensemble into the same action.
“The General wants us to have Altstadt under our control by the morning.”
“Did he say which morning, Sir, only I have a request in for a spot of leave?”
The tired laughter gave everyone a lift.
Rory MacPherson was always a wag, but his humour had been slightly forced and deliberate on this occasion.
The 1st Battalion, Highland Light Infantry, had taken their own fair share of punishment.
His tam o’shanter was gone, replaced by a grubby bandage.
The product of the head wound remained on his only battledress, the rest of his private belongings somewhere in the divisional train outside of the German city.
His trews showed all the signs of having been trampled by rabid camels, but he was there and fighting fit, if not tired beyond words.
“Thank you for that, Rory. Alas, I will not have time for leave requests before this show kicks off. Now…”
Haugh drew a few lines on the map and added unit marks.
“I’m deliberately not going to use the waterside on this one. You all know why.”
The last time the brigade had bared a flank to open water, it had cost them dearly, so Haugh was not having any repeat.
“Rory’s jocks will take and hold this area, but you will anchor yourself on the Zollkanal to the left, and you will take and hold the Grimm Bridge here. No moving over Fischmarkt without orders. That’s phase one. Phase two and you move up to here… and here. These bridges are long gone, but do watch out on the flanks in case. Cremon, up to Reimerstweite, that’s end of phase two. Phase three… well, we’ll call that as we see it, but I suspect that will be for another time. Clear, Rory?”
MacPherson checked his recall and nodded.
“Crystal, Sir.”
“Your unit boundary will be Steinstrasse, and for phase two, Börsenbrucke, for which you also have responsibility.”
“Terry, your special unit will take this line here, between Steinstrasse and Mönckebergstrasse. You have Mönckebergstrasse. No further forward than this park here for phase one, unless I order it. Phase two, liaise with the Royal Welch on your right, as they may need to manoeuvre, but I want your unit to hold the gap between the Jocks and the Welsh, no further forward than Johannistrasse. Understood?”
Major Terry Farnsworth was in charge of an ad hoc unit, drawn from the support services of 71st Brigade, and bulked up with two platoons of Ox and Bucks.
Haugh turned to the Welshman on his right.
“And you, Tewdyr… you get the prize, the Rathaus… for obvious reasons.”
He brought the young Colonel in closer.
“See here. Do try and keep clear of Ballindamm, will you. As you move forward, the natural lie of the land concentrates you, giving you a frontage of less than a hundred and fifty yards when you attack the Rathaus itself… not that I need to tell you eh?”
Lieutenant Colonel Tewdyr Hedd Llewellyn VC, OC 4th Royal Welch Fusiliers, understood only too well, and for the briefest of moments, his mind went back to August 1945, when the cobbles and rubble had run red with the blood of hundreds of soldiers; German, Scots, Welsh, and Russian.
He shuddered involuntarily.
His commanding officer understood and slapped him on the shoulder.
“Perhaps lay a few ghosts eh, Tewdyr?”
Llewellyn nodded his agreement, although he actually suspected that he would simply acquire a few more.
“Beg your pardon, Sir, but who came up with this fucking nightmare?”
Captain Gareth Anwill had also been present at the defence of the Rathaus all those months ago, and had a healthy respect for the area’s defensive qualities.
“Well, Gareth, someone’s gotta do it, and if you can think of anyone better qualified, then I’m all ears, trust me.”
He let the statement hang in a quiet broken only by the occasional mortar round being slung at the enemy defences.
It had been sometime since the Red Army had replied, as their ammunition stocks were running low.
“Is there some reason we can’t just sit them out, Sir?”
The other officer who had seen action on those fateful days made a fair point.
“Short answer is no. I put it to the Colonel myself, and got short shrift. We need this port up and running, and as quickly as possible. They might take weeks to jack it in, and the brass simply can’t wait. Sorry, Malcolm, good idea, but non-starter.”
Captain Reece withdrew into his shell.
Llewellyn detailed the general plan and then made his own mark on the orders, assigning routes, units, fire plans, support options, until everything that could be covered had been covered.
“We go at 2300 hrs. Any questions?”
In reality, the Red Army units opposing the 71st Brigade were a shadow of their former selves, undernourished, tired and low on everything, including hope; nowhere near as strong as Brigadier Haugh had been led to believe.
The Soviet defenders were on their last legs, drinking dirty water from the canal system and finding food wherever nature provided it, although it had been a long time since any self-respecting seagull or rat had come within killing distance.
In essence, they were dying, not as quickly as those who succumbed to artillery or bullets, but just as certainly.
Anton Mogris, once of 31st Guards Rifle Division, the Major who gave his name to the desperate groups of soldiers assigned to resist in this section of the crumbling defences, was out on his feet.
He washed himself in the seated position, his ragged uniform tunic set aside as he splashed water over his emaciated body, bones protruding and stretching white skin where any healthy man would have displayed pink flesh and nothing else.
“Report.”
The runner had waited dutifully whilst his commander wiped the rivulets from his torso.
“Comrade Mayor, Comrade Kapitan Taraseva reports activity on her front. She suggests it’s preparations for an attack down Rosenstrasse. She has ordered her unit to readiness and…err…”
“Spit it out, Comrade.”
“Comrade Mayor, Comrade Kapitan Taraseva also asks if there is any ammunition or food available.”
Even though the situation was dire, Mogris could not help but laugh aloud.
“Unfortunately, there is no food available to send forward. However, good news, Comrade Runner…” and Mogris leant across to a crate, extracting some items.
“I can give you these. Now, tell Comrade Taraseva that she is to hold her position at all costs, and send me word on any change. Is that clear, Comrade runner?”
The two grenades and four clips of rifle ammunition changed hands, and the runner left.