“Valour knows no national boundaries Major Llewellyn.”
The tired Welshman nodded wearily.
“Many a brave man died here today and that’s a fact Major Ramsey.”
To bring an end to the maudlin moment the Black Watch officer brought himself to the attention.
“Major Llewellyn, it has been a privilege to serve with you.”
He saluted the younger man, and went to take his leave.
He stopped, considering something, and turned back again.
“One day when all this is over, someone will write a book about today Lieutenant Chard.”
The reference to the commander of Rourke’s Drift brought a dry laugh from the Welshman.
Affecting a posh English accent, he quipped back, feeling a lot better than he had done for some time.
“See you on the other side of the water Bromhead old chap.”
Llewellyn Force successfully completed its relocation as planned and without major incident, reforming the defensive line, a line that still spread unbroken across the whole of the city, which good news Radio Hamburg hammered out to a frightened population.
Reece and Ames put down their covering fire, as much to create noise as to disrupt any enemy moves.
Ames, with the uncanny ability to sense the right action, altered his fire plan and ordered a three round battery shoot on the area around St Jacobi that the Soviets had used to gather for the attack that afternoon.
1st Company, 106th Pontoon Engineers had sustained no casualties that day, being held back ready for when the infantry did their job.
Under cover of darkness, they were moving their equipment up ready for the assault the following day. The command group was being briefed by the shocked General whose 1st Rifle Corps had bled out in the attack.
Twelve rounds of HE landed in a tight area, testament to the skills of the British gunners.
The screams of the dying were mixed with the shouts of rescuers who rushed forward as the fire shifted to other areas.
Many of the 106th’s personnel lay broken and bleeding with their equipment wrecked beyond use.
The engineer command group and that of the 1st Rifle Corps were unidentifiable, two shells having landed a few feet either side of them as they worked.
They were the final casualties of a bloody day.
In 1879, at the Battle of Rourke’s Drift in Natal, South Africa, the defenders were awarded eleven Victoria Crosses and numerous other awards, two of the VC’s falling to Lieutenants Chard and Bromhead, the officers commanding.
In 1945, Llewellyn submitted a long list of recommendations for his men, all of whom deserved an award many times over.
In 1879, the British Government had been keen to reduce the impact of the disastrous Isandhlwana battle and played up the defence of Rourke’s Drift, hence its place in British Military history and the numerous awards of medals for such a small action.
In 1945, Llewellyn Force and its stand in Hamburg was historic because of the huge losses the modest British and German Force inflicted on the enemy.
It was also historic because it was the first battle of the new war in which two Victoria Crosses were awarded.
Llewellyn’s report laid over forty names before his commanding officer and only three were downgraded from the original recommendations of the proud Welshman. Ranging from a Military Medal for CSM Price to a DSO for Maior Perlmann of the Fallschirmjager, a bar to the Military Cross for the dead Frederick Brown to a DSO for Captain Daffyd Jones of A Company.
Last on Llewellyn’s list was the recommendation for the award of a Victoria Cross to a young fusilier who had sacrificed his life so that others could live, fulfilling the promise he made over the boys corpse in the burning Rathaus.
The commanding officer of 43rd Welch Division also received a report submitted by a British Officer not of his division, and counter-signed by all but one of the leadership of Llewellyn Force. This document put forward another name for the highest award, a report given much weight by bearing the signatures of a number of experienced and decorated officers, not the least of which was Major J. Ramsey VC, DSO and 2 Bars, MC and Bar, The Black Watch.
Which meant that, on 3rd January 1946, Major/Acting Lieutenant Colonel Tewdwr Llewellyn stood in the Throne room of Buckingham Palace, alongside the proud sister of Private Euan Jenkins, both to receive Victoria Crosses from a grateful King and Country.
Nazarbayeva had once again come very close to death and she knew it, allied aircraft the offenders this time, in the shape of Thunderbolts intent on mischief. Her driver and security officer were poring over the GAZ, trying to mend the radiator damage resulting from the crash, which itself had been caused by hard manoeuvrings as they avoided the attentions of the fighters attacking the bridge she was just about to cross.
She checked her watch.
It was precisely 8.45pm on a lovely summer’s eve and she immediately decided that a Lieutenant Colonel’s rank had to have some privileges
Looking around her, she decided against the ruined watermill as a starting point, instead looking north towards the meadow.
Leaving the vehicle and would-be mechanics to the job, she decided to go for a walk, as this was the first time she had stretched her legs since leaving the military hospital at Kirchgellersen where she had interrogated a severely wounded British Intelligence Colonel. Pekunin’s decision to send her personally had been the correct one as the man had died this very evening, but not before Tatiana had garnered some interesting and important information.
As she walked, Nazarbayeva watched the small unit of bridging engineers who had already placed out barriers preventing anyone from using their bridge while they set to repairing the damage from the air attack.
Nazarbayeva paused to watch them at work, assessing the time they would take. Moving on, she walked past the stubs of a larger wooden bridge that had been knocked down during the fighting a few days beforehand.
All around her the detritus of war was still randomly spread, plainly marking the location as one on which blood had been prodigiously spilt.
Rough graves interring Soviet soldiers lay close to those where the enemy were obviously buried, all committed near to where they fell.
A blackened hull of a destroyed T-34 tank stood silent guarding the watercourse, a ruined burnt-out jeep pushed into the nearby bushes.
The other side of the river stood a number of large trucks, smashed and rent, each with its own crop of markers depicting the unfortunates who had died.
All around the site the ground had been scarred by high-explosives, the fields seemingly despoiled by the work of huge moles.
Tatiana walked along the bank of the river, walking around the shell holes, trying to read the battlefield.
She followed the bend around, finding ammunition, belts and helmets in large quantities.
In a large shell hole were the obvious signs of a temporary aid post, with blood stained bandages and torn clothing in thick piles.
A shattered rifle, obviously American, lay sundered on the rim.
She followed the river round to where the visible indications of multiple grenade bursts covered the ground.
A very obvious corpse lay in the bushes on the other side, a cloud of flies rising and descending, feeding on the decaying flesh. The uniform was that of the Red Army. She promised herself that she would order the engineers to remedy the situation and bury this unknown hero of the Motherland once back to the bridge.
She stopped and looked around her, recognising the shallow depressions as filled-in trenches and foxholes. She concluded that this was an American defensive position, and decided to walk it with a professional eye.