“Fuck! Get ’em the hell outta here now, Al!”
Gesualdo was up and running in an instant, turning his back on the solid metal shapes that had materialised on the 319 to their front.
Barkmann grabbed the radio.
“Tanks?”
“Yessir… at least company strength by the reports.”
“Not good, not good. Can they pull out now?”
“Might just have them overrun as they try, less’n we can interfere. Too early for air, so artillery?”
“I’ll scare them up what I can, Ed. Get something going for ground back up and give the commander permission to withdraw back as soon as he sees fit. Warn up the flank units on that score too.”
Leaving Greiner to his work, Pierce sought out Hamlett, the bespectacled artillery commander.
“Barksdale, what have you got set up ready that can help us here?”
Colonel Barksdale Hamlett Jr produced a sheet of paper from his folder and checked, more for confirmation than anything.
“396th is online and ready to go, General.”
105mm Howitzers could have a very negative effect on tanks, so Pierce was more than happy.
“Get them dialled in to support the Rangers at Drulingen, fast as you can, Barks.”
No sooner had Barkmann finished his exchange with headquarters than the 396th came on air, offering up their fire support.
Spreading a map across his knees, the Ranger Captain jotted the coordinates down and relayed them to the waiting artillery.
Leaving the airwaves silent for a moment, Barkmann moved up to the edge of his position and waited for the incoming shell.
Disappointingly, it arrived in the woods behind the advancing tanks and infantry.
They seemed an awful lot closer now and so Barkmann made the call for full fire.
“Drop three hundred and fire for effect, Boxer-six, over.”
A lifetime later, or at least that was how it seemed, the landscape around the advancing Soviet elements erupted in high-explosive, immediately yielding two huge secondary explosions, as shells struck home on thin top armour.
Barkmann shouted at his nearest soldiers.
“Pour it into ’em, boys!”
The Soviet infantry of 24th Rifle Division started running as fast as they could, savvy enough to understand that it would be much safer the nearer they were to the capitalist positions.
Veteran tankers from the 25th Tank Corps started to speed in all directions, keen to avoid the rain of death, but also conscious of the presence of the anti-tank guns that had so far claimed two of their number.
One T-34/85, some five hundred yards to the Rangers’ front, drew in behind a pile of explosively turned snow, the commander leaning over to consult with the infantry huddled in the flimsy cover.
As Barkmann watched, he saw the man’s neck disintegrate and then heard the crack of the Springfield, as Irlam neatly put a round into the tank officer.
The roar of the 3”, followed immediately by whooping from the crew, indicated more success for the gunners. Off to the right, another T-34 spilt black smoke over the field as its crew made off to the rear, helped along by fire from the Rangers.
The whooping stopped in an instant of blinding light as a 76.2mm artillery shell dropped millimetre perfect onto the breech block of the 3” weapon, where it exploded with full force.
The gun and its crew disintegrated in a micro-second, as explosive power ripped the metal and flesh apart, scattering deadly fragments in all directions.
The 3” shell that the loader had been holding fell with a heavy thud, point first, into Barkmann’s position, coming to rest in the ground, upright, and roughly six inches from his right hand.
‘Oh shit!’
It remained dormant.
Something wet clung to his face and formed oily, bloody teardrops as it dripped downwards.
Other bits of men and weapon fell to earth all around him and his nearest positions, and not all missed other targets.
Irlam was struck by, of all things, a pencil, the wood shaft sticking out of the side of his neck like a medieval arrow sans feathers.
A Ranger Corporal, bringing forward more .50cal ammo, was struck in the midriff by the fast moving nearside tyre assembly, which folded him neatly in half and propelled his dead body many yards away. The corpse came to rest in the side of a small snow drift, leaving only a set of hands and a set of feet protruding, either side of the shredded rubber tyre.
Two other Rangers, relocating with a .30cal, were directly struck by whirling pieces of gun, both fatally.
A Soviet shell fragment punched through the chest of a Ranger rifleman stood next to Barkmann, killing the man instantly.
The .50cal fell silent in horror as the loader coughed out his life, his throat and upper chest destroyed by something very solid moving at speed. His gunner did what he could, pulling away at the offending object, unconsciously registering the shape of a Colt 1911A, packing the wound and administering morphine before he accepted that his friend had stopped clinging to life.
Barkmann shook his head, trying to clear the mist that descended after the explosion. Since Hattmatt, he seemed more prone to such things and now was not the time.
From his own position, Barkmann was powerless to do anything but shout.
“Get that goddamned ma deuce back into action, now!”
In the time that the .50cal had been silent, the wave of enemy had covered many yards.
It stuttered back into life as the dead loader and stunned gunner were pushed aside by Ford.
To the right of the weapon, Barkmann saw movement and realised that the enemy were closer than he imagined.
A surge of enemy soldiery issued from behind a low snowy hump, bearing down on the .50cal position.
There was no time.
Shouldering his Garand, Barkmann worked the line, dropping the enemy into the snow from left to right.
The clip pinged out of the weapon as he emptied it into the running group.
He had put six on target, missing two.
That left five enemy soldiers.
“Ford, to your right! To your right!”
The .50cal blotted out his voice, and the Sergeant and gunner-now-loader continued, oblivious to their approaching doom.
‘Oh shit!’
He stood and yelled.
“Yaaaaaahhhhh!”
Before he knew what he was doing, Barkmann was up and out of his position, screaming at the top of his voice, and charging towards the five surviving enemy.
The combination of the death of their comrades, and the blood red and gun oil black-faced lunatic closing in on them was more than enough to make them forget everything in favour of sheer survival.
They fled, just as Barkmann ran out of shouting power.
He dropped in beside Ford, gasping for air, and charged his Garand.
A Soviet shell exploded behind the trench and a small piece of metal pinged off the top of his helmet.
“More ammo,” shouted Ford, masking a grunt from his companion.
The former gunner slid into the bottom of the position, coming to rest in a growing pool of blood, his sightless eyes not betraying the momentary agony he had felt as shrapnel had ripped into the back of his head.
The .50cal rattled again as the Ranger Captain dashed out to recover two ammo boxes from where the hapless Corporal had his high-speed encounter with the AT gun tyre.
He prepped the box ready, but Ford ceased, leaving twelve rounds hanging at the end of the belt.
“They’re bugging out, Captain. All of ’em.”
Barkmann took a look to confirm Ford’s statement before slapping his NCO on the shoulder.