Barkmann went to reload his pistol, but the wounds and the recent impact of his left arm on the floor had left him with reduced movement in the limb, slowing him up.
Behind him the Bazooka team reloaded.
In front of him, one man emerged from where he had thrown himself and charged.
Instinct alone preserved the Ranger officer, as he twisted out of the way of the bayonet, which plunged between through his armpit area and into the floor below.
Lashing out with his feet, he tripped the rifleman up, causing him to lose his grip on the Mosin.
Quickly recovering, the Soviet soldier threw himself on top of the Ranger and his hands found Barkmann’s throat.
More Soviet soldiers arrived and a grenade wobbled past the struggling pair, seeking out the bazooka team in the rear room.
A scream spoke volumes, and three men moved forward, leaving their comrade to throttle the life from the Amerikanski.
The light sound of an M-1 Carbine betrayed the presence of fight in the Bazooka crew, and the three dropped back, one of them bleeding from a leg wound.
Behind them, Barkmann was fighting for his life. Desperately trying to knee his opponent, he found himself unable to make contact, or do anything to loosen the strong grip that the man had on his throat.
The Soviet assault party sent another grenade into the rear room, and followed up quickly, leaving the two combatants alone once more.
The Carbine spoke again, albeit briefly.
Summoning up all his strength, and despite the pain in his wounded arm, Barkmann grabbed the man’s face with his left hand, twisting on the nose and lips as he sought a hold.
Shaking his head rapidly, the Soviet soldier easily dislodged the weak attack.
Stars started to explode before the Ranger officer’s eyes as the end approached.
With everything last ounce of energy he possessed, Barkmann dug his right hand fingernails into the hands around his throat and rammed his left hand upwards.
The pain in his left arm was incredible, but he drove it up and into the Russian’s face as hard as he could.
The scream was awful.
The grip around his throat relaxed.
In horror, Barkmann realised that he could only see half his index finger. The rest had entered the Russian’s eye socket and was into the vital matter beyond.
Grasping his face in his hands, the Soviet soldier staggered away, squealing like a pig in an abattoir, blood and other fluids running down his face.
Recovering his breath, Barkmann hauled himself to his feet. The Mosin was still stuck in the floorboards so he pulled it free and finished the job, ramming the blade deep into the hideously wounded man’s chest and ending his pain.
Withdrawing the blade, he finished off the unconscious officer with a thrust to the back of the neck before discarding the rifle and selecting a PPSh dropped by another of his victims.
Grabbing two spare magazines, he continued to breathe heavily, his throat bruised and sore.
In the back room he found the Bazooka team still alive but not long for this world, so severely wounded that the Soviet soldiers hadn’t spared them another thought.
Both died within seconds of each other.
Shouldering the bazooka, Barkmann grabbed the spare rounds container and moved off, the pain of his injuries obscured by the imperatives of survival.
“We’ll have air over the field as soon as it’s light enough, General. Meantime, the arty’s doing all it can. The Rangers are holding.”
Pierce knew that his boys were dying out in the snow, holding a piece of real estate that was pretty much worthless, just buying time for his plan to come together.
Such is the lot of a General.
“2nd and Lorraine ready to go, Ed?”
“Lorraine is for sure, General. Garbled report from the 2nd may mean that they’ve got trouble of their own with commie tanks… trying to firm that up right now. The Legion boys are coming in the southern flank with armour, so reckon we’ll still be good to go as 2nd was pretty much just the anvil.”
“OK, Ed, just make sure we do everything we can for those Ranger boys.”
Behind them the radio crackled into life as Boxer-Six reported in.
The command post fell silent as there was a collective holding of breath.
The metallic tones could not hide the weariness in the man’s voice, nor could the mechanical precise military words conceal the greater human story.
The message concluded and all eyes turned expectantly to Pierce.
“Tell them well done and to get the hell outta there right now!”
“Roger. Boxer-six, out.”
Barkmann let the handset fall from his hand and he searched in his pocket for a cigarette, which effort was thwarted by the violent shakes that now afflicted him constantly.
“We’re pulling out. Now, we’re pulling out now. Pass the order.”
The men of F Company that had stood with him in the last few minutes moved off, calling to their comrades, and spreading the word.
The Spanish NCO and his four companions remained, their eyes moving cautiously around the area, unable to quite believe that the enemy had withdrawn.
Leaning forward, the Corporal extracted Barkmann’s cigarettes and stuck one in the shocked man’s mouth, lighting it with an extravagant flourish of his petrol lighter.
“Thanks. Have one yourselves.”
The Spaniard didn’t understand the words but interpreted the tone correctly, passing them through his men.
The artillery had stopped, both sides seemingly spent.
In the distance, the sounds of retreating diesel engines marked the final disappearance of the surviving Soviet armour, leaving the faint sobs of the wounded to combine with unexpected sounds of bird song and the inexorable sounds of fire.
The Ranger Captain had killed the last T-34 thirty yards from where he now stood, the small hole in the side of the turret betraying a perfect strike.
Smoke rose lazily from the vehicle, as well as from the singed uniforms of the men who had tried to escape from it, still lying where they had been shot down by unsympathetic Allied soldiers.
F Company had taken murderous casualties, fifty-two men dead or soon to be so.
The Spaniards had been whittled down to seven effectives, and few of the wounded expected to see midday.
But they had held, and the hundreds of dead Soviets on the field was testament to their resilience, as well as the skill of the artillery support.
The Soviet tank company, actually the surviving vehicles from two companies, had been savaged, leaving fifteen of their vehicles on the field, three personally removed by the Ranger Captain who was now considered certifiably mad by all concerned.
In the very forward positions something moved.
Pushing the heavy weight off his chest, First Sergeant Ford levered himself upright against the wall of trench. Shoving the dead Russian away, he automatically sought and found his Thompson and checked the magazine.
“Will you keep quiet? I’m concentrating.”
Ford did a double take, only just realising that the dead body alongside him wasn’t actually dead, but was curled up with a Springfield and evil intent.
“Dirk?”
“That’s me. Now, can it, Sergeant. I’m working.”
Carefully sliding to the front of the trench, Ford raised his head.
To their front, he estimated at least five hundred yards, was a senior Soviet officer, ranting and brandishing a pistol at anyone he could make eye contact with.