Bullets pinged off the wrecked Volkswagen behind which Ramsey had taken cover, betraying the presence of more Soviets that had been cautiously moving into the corner of the Markt, directly opposite the Rathaus. Ramsey slid the stick back into his belt and picked up an Enfield rifle sat propped up, almost by design, against the vehicle. Checking it automatically, the weapon seemed fine; it was just empty.
Taking some ammo from the dead former owner, he prepared to intervene.
However, before he could commit himself the problem was dealt with in a more dramatic fashion, as two tanks from the Yeomanry’s headquarters rounded the Rathaus and took the new threat under fire.
One of the Sherman’s was the HQ close support tank, armed with a 105mm howitzer and its explosive shells did deadly work in short order, once again snuffing out a Soviet threat.
A shell struck the CS tank but did not penetrate, rather carrying away the nearside drive sprocket and smashing the track. The companion tank sought out the enemy and engaged what it thought was the right target, setting fire to a T-34 that had been knocked out the previous day.
The concealed operational T-34 fired again and penetrated the hull front of the CS Sherman just underneath the machine gunners position, cutting the luckless gunner in half before moving on to destroy the main gun loader as he was in the act of sliding a shell home.
Whatever happened in that split second turned the tank into an instant inferno, immolating the dead and living in equal measure. Within seconds, the vehicle was ‘brewing up’, a typically British understated term for the way some tanks burn like furnaces, firing flames in hard straight lines from openings and loudly whooshing like a boiling kettle.
Those in and around the Markt who had not seen the phenomenon before could not help but spare it a horrified gaze, the more so when the awful fate of the crew occurred to them.
Finally locating the enemy tank, the other British vehicle, a Firefly, put three shells into the now silent hulk. The 17-pdr’s sabot rounds had a high penetrative performance but lacked the punch of larger shells once inside. In this instance it hadn’t mattered, as the first shell had killed three of the crew, the last two succumbing to the second impact.
Much to the regret of the Firefly crew, the enemy tank did not burn as their friends had burned.
They moved forward into a sandbagged position to assume a cover position up the Mönckebergstraße and immediately destroyed another T-34 manoeuvring its way past its dead comrade. This time the Firefly gunner was rewarded with the sight of flames and a satisfactory imitation of CS tank behind him.
In Ramsey’s position it was total chaos. Some of the Scottish and Germans soldiers exchanged fire with the majority of the Russians, who had temporarily dropped back to regroup for another attack, satisfying themselves with grenades and bullets over the thirty yards that separated the two forces. The remainder were engaged in close quarter fighting with the score or so enemy who had not fallen back with the others.
The sudden squawk of the pipes being winded penetrated the sounds of fighting.
B Company’s piper had taken a bullet on the leg as he ran across the Markt and had only just managed to crawl to his instrument to contribute as best he could to the fight.
Setting himself against the dead body of an unknown paratrooper he started his repertoire, ‘Scotland the Brave’ building in volume as he set about his task.
The effect upon Ramsey’s Jocks was electric and they renewed themselves to greater efforts, especially as their Major had rejoined them, unharmed and in fighting mood.
Ramsey could sense the difference and, for that matter, so could Perlmann twenty yards away to his left.
Turning around to shout at the Piper, the very English Ramsey drew a number of grins from his men for behaviour less than that expected of a gentleman.
“Piper Sinclair!”
The piper played on.
“Sinclair!”
Affecting his finest Scottish accent Ramsey tried again.
“Sinclair ye deaf bas!”
Picking up a piece of brick, Ramsey tossed it at his piper who thought that it was a grenade and rolled over the body of the German with the speed of a gazelle.
Sheepishly looking over the corpse he noted his Major grinning and shouting in his direction.
Ramsey, confident he now had the undivided attention of his piper issued his orders.
“Black Bear Sinclair, give the lads Black Bear!”
Putting wind in his instrument once more, the pipes started to belt out Ramsey’s choice, which the company always played when they went on the attack.
The Scots braced themselves and waited on Ramsey’s order.
That order came and the Watch rose up, charging forward, screaming like banshees, closely followed by the strangely yet equally inspired Fallschirmjager.
The Soviet force also chose to attack at the same time and the two groups met in the middle area, clashing at the charge.
A hideously ugly Russian leapt in the air, intent on staving Ramsey’s skull with his rifle butt. As he descended he changed direction in mid-air, the force of bullets from a paratroopers MP40 sending him flying into the Soviet rifleman to his left.
There was no time for thanks as that man, regaining his balance, threw himself at the Black Watch commander, bayonet surging towards his unprotected belly.
Ramsey fell, his feet tangled in the straps of a discarded Soviet rifle. The thrust missed its target and skidded off Ramsey’s canteen.
Winded by the force of his fall, Ramsey twisted as best he could, narrowly avoiding a second thrust which hit the road and snapped the bayonet of his enemy.
The Russian stupidly looked at the broken blade and Ramsey took advantage, swinging his Enfield round and slamming it into the side of the man’s head sending him flying, the impression of the front sight clear on the side of his forehead.
Ramsey moved quickly, as he sensed rather than saw another threat, and felt heavy pressure as his rifle was almost forced from his hands. As he had turned, the bayonet had become a spike onto which the attacking Soviet officer had propelled himself with his own momentum.
The dead body slid easily off Ramsey’s steel, and he turned and quickly shot the other unconscious man in the head before taking a moment to assess the situation.
Many of the Russians were down, over half their number had perished in the ferocious counter-attack, but there were also a large number of his own men who would never see the glens again.
The Fallschirmjager had fared better, possibly because they had run in slightly behind the Scots.
‘Black Bear’ had stopped, Piper Sinclair having been sought out by a rifleman and shot in the head.
Over a hundred more Soviets flooded out of the ruins and into the fight, throwing everything into the balance again, and Ramsey knew the moment had come.
Shouting encouragement to his men, he waded into a group of Soviets, angling in from their left side. He ran the first through with his bayonet, screaming with pain as a rifle butt hammered against his wounded shoulder, dropping him to his knees. A Soviet soldier loomed over him, raising his entrenching tool to maximum height and then falling away as a line of crimson flowers appeared out of his chest.
Recovering his own rifle, Ramsey suddenly found himself isolated and the sole target for three enemy soldiers.
A moment’s pause was all he needed, triggering the Enfield and dropping the centre man with a round to the stomach. Rushing left, he caught the next man by surprise and bundled straight into him, sending him flying. Turning to the third man, he felt the sear of pain as a bullet flicked his thigh. The man worked the bolt on his rifle quickly but Ramsey ended his life with a powerful thrust through the throat.
Turning to the second man, he saw that no further action was needed. The force of Ramsey’s impact had propelled the Russian onto a wicked wooden spike that stuck out from the rubble. The man was face down on it, twitching and mumbling incoherently as his life drained out of him.