A reconnaissance mission by USAAF aircraft photographed nothing unexpected in the area, a testament to the well-known Soviet skill at camouflage, often referred to as ‘the ability to hide an elephant under a postage stamp.’
Von Scharf called in artillery as best he could, but a dedicated team was needed, and he asked for one to be sent forward immediately. German efficiency was such that a suitable observation section was quickly dispatched to join 3rd Battalion on the top of Height 462.
In the German rear, controlled panic ruled, as some staff officers redirected units to bolster the centre, whilst yet others pushed the pincer formations harder, sensing an opportunity.
Seven kilometres from where von Scharf had his headquarters, another bunker, secreted within Gronau Park, contained the commanders of 11th Guards Tank Corps, gathered together to review the attack plan, and now employed in responding to the unexpected German incursion.
The Corps Commander, Major General Amazasp Babadzhanian, had only just finished agreeing a fire plan with his artillery commander, Major General Mikhail Solukovtsev, when he saw the opportunity presenting itself.
“Comrades! Comrades!”
The hubbub in the bunker died away and the harried staff officers all turned to face their boss.
“Impress upon every officer… every soldier… we have an opportunity here. We can inflict huge losses on the green toads… but only if we attack hard… attack quickly… and do not stop. I’m convinced we can roll these bastards all the way to our first objective,” he tapped the map down the length of the heights between the Saale and the Ilse. “And probably beyond… but we must push… and push hard.”
Babadzhanian slammed his balled fist into his palm to emphasise his point.
“We have some air cover, but not enough, so make sure our AA assets stay tight,” he directed his comment generally, but his gaze was fixed on the Colonel in charge of the AA regiment.
“Now, leave 44th Tanks to overcome the river crossing, and implement the attack plan at,” he paused, looking at his watch, “1220. Move!”
To the untrained eye, it would have seemed that the command post descended into organised anarchy in seconds, but Babadzhanian understood that all was well, and his powerful corps would soon be crushing the hated Germanski under the tracks of their tanks.
The Third Battalion was engulfed in a man-made storm of fire and metal, as the Soviet artillery pounded the height with a regimental barrage, with numerous mortars adding their own brand of death to the party.
Men dug deeper, even as the artillery arrived and, now and again, claimed them and their comrades, the illusion of safety offered by the cool earth occasionally shattered by the explosive force of a Russian howitzer shell.
The telephone line had been laid, but was already useless, severed by some unseen strike.
The signallers were out, braving the storm of shells, seeking the break, the radio useless for reasons unknown.
A Soviet Guards radio unit hidden, west of Bantein, jammed the channels, furthering hampering the German defence.
Which meant the Von Scharf and the Third were on their own.
Their supporting artillery had ceased fire, unable to receive fire instructions from the OP group that had arrived, firstly because the radio was jammed, and subsequently because a Soviet fragmentation shell scattered a number of their bodies over the summit of Height 462.
By running cables through the trench system, the battalion signallers had enabled communication from the companies to the battalion command post, and it proved a godsend almost immediately.
“Herr Hauptmann. Seven Kompagnie.”
Scharf grabbed the handset and ducked, all in the same motion, as dust and earth shaken from the ceiling fell around him, the large calibre near-miss enough to shake the sturdy bunker to its core
“Scharf.”
“Herr Hauptmann. We have three companies of infantry forming up at the bottom of the slope. I’d say they are about set to charge.”
A nearby shell made Keller duck instinctively, as pieces of bark dislodged from the reinforcing tree trunks in the ceiling cascaded down like confetti on a bride.
He missed Scharf’s question.
“Say again. I can’t hear you.”
“Do they intend to flank?”
He was conscious that Keller’s men held the edge of the height, but that their position curled back on itself for the smallest distance before there was no defensive force.
“Not how they’re set up, Herr Hauptmann, but I‘ll keep watching. Perhaps send two squads to position there, just in case?”
Von Scharf battled against his instinct to support the Seventh Company.
“Nein. I need the reserve here, under my command. Ninth Kompagnie has infantry and panzers entering Marienhagen as we speak, and Eighth has a similar force as you to its front. Just watch that flank, Keller. I’m relying on you.”
There was a pause.
In the distance, von Scharf could hear the distinctive sound of MG-42s.
“They’re attacking now. Not flanking at the moment. Direct assault. Signing off.”
Keller was gone before he could respond, and, in any case, the telephone came to life in his hands as eight and nine companies reported their own problems.
More defensive machine-guns opened up as the height came under full attack.
The soldiers of the Second and Third Battalions, 27th Guards Motor Rifle Brigade, were less than enamoured with their allocated task. Trained to ride into battle alongside their armoured comrades, they were now committed to footslog up a hill manned by their traditional enemy, well-armed with automatic weapons.
None the less, they were Soviet Guardsmen, and they charged forward.
Babadzhanian accepted that he would lose some of his supporting infantry whilst he overcame any resistance on the hill, but he could not move forward with it in enemy hands, and felt the risk of waiting for an ordinary infantry unit to arrive was one he was not prepared to take.
His motorised infantrymen started to pay the price for his decision, the machine-guns of the 899th Grenadieres cutting down men half a dozen at a time.
Von Scharf, with limited mortar ammunition, held his fire until he could decide where the greatest threat was, and ended up not firing them at all, as the Soviet attack ran out of steam halfway up the slope.
“What’s happening, Aschmann?”
“They’ve gone to ground, Herr Hauptmann… well… mainly so. My left flank reports that the enemy attacking them have dropped all the way back to the valley. Centrally, we’ve stopped them cold, about a third of the way up. They found it more difficult to come up from Marienhagen, but the bastards are still clinging to the slope there.”
“Casualties?”
“A few hundred of them for sure, my own presently unknown, and very few from the infantry attack. It’s the damned artillery and mortars that’s hurting us. I had nineteen casualties before the attack. I’ll tell you the firm figure as soon as I know, Herr Hauptmann.”
Von Scharf wondered if he had been wrong to mistrust Aschmann. He sounded in control.
“Keep me informed, and keep up the good work, Oberleutnant. This hill is ours, and I intend to stay here, come what may. Alles klar?”
Half of his conversation had not arrived with Aschmann, as a mortar shell severed the cable precisely halfway between the two posts.
“Aschmann?… Aschmann?…”
He tossed the handset to his signalman.
“Verdammt… repair party!”
The two remaining signallers looked at each other, having only just returned from a dangerous spell outside looking for a break in the line to Eight Company.