Infantry followed, as the lead companies of the 897th Grenadiere Regiment made their way over, clinging to the developing structures or using the flotation devices they had been given or made from materials to hand.
Another hasty Soviet counter-attack drove into the men clinging to the bank, and floundered in close quarter fighting. The clearly weakened and less fit Red Army infantrymen failed to gain an upper hand, despite their superior numbers, and fell back in disarray, pursued by fire from the German soldiers, whose numbers grew steadily as more men crossed the bloody waters.
Soviet mortar fire increased in tempo, but was less accurate than usual, although men still died as hot metal penetrated their flesh.
To the southwest, more men of the 897th were pushing against the defenders of Salzhemmendorf. Pushing none too hard, as per orders, hoping to pin the defenders in place, rather than push them out, as the plan was to pinch off the small salient before pushing further into Germany.
The lower half of the pincers was still silent.
Half a kilometre north of Ockensen, the two watercourses, the Saale and Thüster Beeke, were less of an obstacle, being of considerably less width at that point than at Hemmendorf. It was here that 3rd Battalion, 899th Grenadiere Regiment, temporarily assigned to the 897th, waited for the order to attack.
“Get them ready, Hermann. It won’t be long.”
“Will do. Still no sign of anything to my front. I hope the recon photos are right.”
Hermann Keller left that hanging.
The phone buzzed softly as Von Scharf, some metres away in his battalion command post, wished for the same thing.
“I suspect there’ll be something up there, and we’ve catered for it, Hermann. But whatever it might be, it won’t be a lot. Just keep that rogue Schneider and his radio close, and we’ll deal with whatever challenges us today.”
Keller smiled, seeking out the sleeping figure of his radio operator.
“Never doubted it, Herr Hauptmann.”
“Hals-und beinbruch, Hermann.”
“Hals-und beinbruch, Herr Hauptmann.”
Two minutes later, the phone rang again.
“Attack immediately, as per plan.”
“Vörwarts!”
The men of Seventh Company rose up as one and pelted forward to the edge of the small watercourse, immediately welcoming the cooling liquid as it rose up their legs to waist level.
Newly fledged Stabsfeldwebel Keller, popular NCO and the sole Ritterkreuzträger in the regiment, pushed his men hard, wishing them out of the exposed area and into the uneven ground beyond.
The trouble with the assault was obvious to every man who had sat waiting to advance. The whole of their initial movement was overseen and dominated by a huge hill, Height 462, from which they expected fire to descend at any moment.
“Quickly! Push on quickly!”
Keller’s cry was taken up by all the NCOs of Seventh Company, although the now veteran soldiers of the 899th needed no encouragement. The men had all developed the crouching run that marked veterans from new soldiers, their jinking low advances intended to throw off the aim of any defenders ahead.
Mortar shells started to arrive, a few at first, and then more, and the first grenadiers fell.
Keller’s company pushed forward hard, and escaped most of the shrapnel, the occasional man dropping as a light defence was offered by the handful of Soviet infantry occupying Height 462.
Those grenadiers following the lead company fared worse, as the majority of the mortar shells landed amongst them.
They went to ground, isolating Keller’s men, who kept plunging forward, intent on getting as close to the hill top as they could.
Height 462 had once been covered with lush green trees, but three separate heavy battles over two years had converted it to a barren landscape, the occasional ruined stump belying its former beauty.
Keller forced his men on, and they started up the gentle foot slopes, moving from shell hole to shell hole, inexorably closing on the defenders.
Von Scharf saw the danger and shouted orders down the radio, encouraging the other companies to rise up and follow Keller.
They did not, the maelstrom of shrapnel made worse by more mortars being targeted on their positions.
“Koenig-five-three, Koenig-five-three, Koenig-one, over.”
Through the steady crumps of mortar shells, von Scharf recognised Keller’s voice.
The radio operator acknowledged.
“Koenig-five-three, keep on going. I’m bringing the rest of the kompagnies up behind you. Push hard and don’t stop, over.”
“Received, Koenig-one. Do it quickly, enemy fire is increasing the closer we get to the top, over.”
‘Scheisse!’
“We’re coming. Koenig-one, out.”
Gathering his battalion headquarters troops around him, he rushed forward, determined to shake the companies loose of their hidey-holes, and get support to Keller.
Back with his weapon of choice, an MP-40, von Scharf led his battalion troops, sweeping up stragglers from the lead companies as he went, accepting losses from the lessening mortar fire, in order to get as close to Keller as possible, and as quickly as possible.
Some men hugged the bottom of shell holes, feigning injury or working on a real one; some lay in ready-made graves, ready for the clearing parties to come after the battle.
But, in the main, von Scharf swept up the reluctant grenadiers and drove them up the hill towards the crest, where it was obvious that Keller had closed with the enemy.
It was all over by the time that von Scharf and his cohorts arrived on the peak, the only work being done by Keller’s men being that of first aid to wounded, or repairing damaged positions.
The dead of both sides lay where they had fallen, not presently a priority.
The battalion commander dropped into the command position and slapped his friend on the shoulder.
“I’m surprised you aren’t on the way to Berlin by now.”
Keller turned to face him.
Von Scharf recoiled in mock horror, even though the injury did look nasty.
“Ouch! How did you get that?”
Keller’s eye was turning purple and black, and getting worse by the second.
The Stabsfeldwebel pointed at his ST-44, leant against a rickety table, almost placed in the corner like a boy being disciplined in the classroom.
“Self-inflicted, Herr Hauptmann. Can’t even bolster my wound tally. Caught that fucking thing on the wooden support there, fell over… got the butt straight in the optic.”
Von Scharf failed to keep a straight face.
“Sorry, Hermann… I mean…”
He took the flask that Keller offered, a Russian one, which meant he prepared his throat for some fiery content; it was greeted solely with water.
“How many did you lose?”
“Doing the numbers now, but my belief is seventeen dead or still lying back there wounded.”
Von Scharf nodded, surprised that the butcher’s bill wasn’t much higher, something that Keller understood.
“Me too, Herr Hauptmann. You?”
“More than that, for sure. I don’t know yet. Anyway, what have you done to get organised here?”
The officer moved out of the bunker in order to study the position with his senior NCO.
Keller reached for the offending ST-44 and, with studied care and a look of hatred for the vertical wooden post in question, moved out through the narrow entrance after his commander.