He was sure that in peacetime it was a beautiful place but in time of war it was a military nightmare to move through, especially if the enemy removed the bridges as they retreated, destroying option after option for the attacking forces.
He pored over the map with his C.O.S., the leadership of 1st Rifle Corps and his Army Artillery Commander, looking for something that had been missed, willing himself to find an alternate route, but knowing there was none.
43rd Army was just about dead on its feet, its offensive capability all committed to this one last throw of the dice.
“There is no choice, we must breakthrough here Comrades.”
His finger striking the map on the point of the last slaughter, ended just after 12pm by his order, withdrawing the bloodied remnants of the 60th’s 235th Rifle Division and the tanks of 39th Guards Tank Brigade.
“Marshall Bagramyan has promised me the 22nd Guards Rifle Corps to replace our casualties, but only if we can break the English here, now, today.”
Looking up from the map, he addressed the trio from 1st Rifle Corps.
“You will take the Rathaus and unlock this sector Comrades. The Rathaus is the key.”
The Army Artillery Commander was next.
“64th Artillery Brigade and 10th Guards Mortar’s will both be dedicated to this attack. Use them wisely Comrade.”
Used to his General’s style, the Artilleryman merely nodded and remained silent.
The Colonel commanding 39th Guards Tanks was next.
“Your tankers have performed superbly these last two days, Comrade Colonel Zorin, but I must ask more. Your remaining full company must support the 1st’s attack, closely, very closely.”
Beloborodov said that as much for the 1st’s officers as for the exhausted young Colonel of tank troops, who had less than half the unit he had entered Hamburg with three days before.
“Right then Comrades, this is how we will get this done.”
Leaning back over the map once more, he used a pencil to describe the intended movement, marking crosses or circling stop points, rally points or targets. “1st will bring themselves up to the same start line used by the 60th, here.” He looked up at the relevant officers to make sure they had understood.
“Artillery and Mortars will fire on this line of buildings until the attack starts. At that time they will shift to the other line here,” he ran the pencil along the building lines in DüstenStraße and WexStraße, two watercourses removed from the Rathaus.
“This worked but enemy reinforcements were still able to get through to the Rathaus once the attack got underway.”
Circling a number of points on the waterways north of the Rathaus, he continued.
“These crossings are down, every one of them, except the Adolphesbrücke here and the AlterDamm cross bridge here, both of which we have avoided bringing down for obvious reasons Comrades.”
Throwing the pencil on the map, he pulled off his Ushanka and ran his fingers through his thinning hair.
“To hell with the bridge now, we will bring it down if we must but no-one will reinforce the Rathaus this time, so be prepared to drop your artillery support closer to the front line positions,” his eyes bored into the Artillery Commander, “Is that clear Comrade?”
“Yes Comrade General.”
Picking out a street name with a quick look at the map the General pressed home his point.
“Neuer Wall and no closer to our troops.”
“Yes Comrade General.”
Picking up the pencil once more, he beckoned everyone closer.
“The infantry attack will not be on a broad front, although I expect you to allocate a battalion for a diversion south, near the Elbe.”
Having circled KatharinenStraße and the Holzbrücke, his preferred spot for the diversion, he brought their attention back to the Rathaus and its environs.
“This area must be taken, the English driven out, and it must be done in this attack Comrades.”
“Once 1st breaches the defences then the 134th will move up and burn them out.”
At the mention of his unit, the horribly scarred Kapitan moved forward to scrutinise his part more closely.
“I don’t care if the whole lot burns, just make sure you shift them all out before nightfall Comrade.”
“Yes Comrade General.”
All present had heard the Kapitan speak before, but that didn’t make him sound any less sinister now. The man’s vocal chords had been damaged at the same time as his body, all victims of a German Flamethrower in 1942.
That Kapitan Scelerov was alive was, in itself, a miracle. That he returned to active duty was remarkable. That he chose to adopt the flamethrower as his weapon of choice was incomprehensible, until you listened to the hate that drove him on each day, through the pain barrier.
Then you understood.
Revenge is a powerful force.
“And so to the tanks. Close support, paying particular attention to machine-guns obviously. Tanks and infantry will remain together at all times, no-one gets isolated.”
Directly addressing the infantry officers, he expanded on their role.
“Your own mortars will support your attack obviously, but make sure they can be redirected to take out the anti-tank guns which hurt 39th the last time,” he looked at the tank battalion commander, stating with honesty, “That was an oversight on my part. I will not have it repeated.”
“Thank you Comrade General,” said the Colonel of Tank Troops, although his inner self wondered why the 60th’s mortar units had not done so as a matter of course.
Dug-in anti-tank guns could be a real bitch but plunging fire tended to be an excellent remedy.
“Here, at the end of RathausMarkt is where 106th will do their job,” he indicated where the Schleusenbrücke had once stood, “And where I want you to ensure that you have sufficient tanks and riflemen in place to cover them while they construct a crossing for us.”
His commanders understood perfectly but it would not hurt to remind them.
“The 106th is extremely valuable and cannot be frittered away, so take great care to make sure they can do their job unhindered Comrades, or we may all be counting trees before the week is out!”
Again, the pencil hit the map as he stood upright.
In the silence, all eyes were drawn to the gentle sound of the pencil rolling steadily and inexorably to the table’s edge before dropping onto the floor.
“Comrades, we will not stop until we have moved over these obstacles and are beyond them. Push on and on. Once it is dark we will stop, and not until then. All units will defend their positions when they halt.”
He pulled up his sleeve and signalled for a time check.
“On my mark it will be 1514 hrs. 3,2,1, mark.”
Fingers pressed down and watches were synchronised as required.
“I think you can all sort out your liaison and pass on your orders in good time. 1st Rifles will take about an hour to get into position so the attack will commence at1645 hrs exactly. Artillery will commence in earnest at 1630 hrs.”
He dropped his left arm, shaking his sleeve down.
“Get the job done and kick these bastard English back to their little island. Good luck Comrades.”
Actually, they weren’t English at all. Some five hundred and thirty years beforehand, these men’s ancestors had provided the backbone of Henry V’s Army at the Battle of Agincourt. To the inexperienced eye, they looked like the standard British Infantryman, pudding bowl helmet, khaki uniform, boots, gaiters, and all sporting either the SMLE, Sten or Bren. To call them English was an insult.
They were Welsh and proud of it.
For two days, the 4th Royal Welch Fusiliers had stood in the face of huge enemy attacks, side by side with actual Englishmen in the form of men of the 1st Oxford and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry.