“Ten fucking AP ain’t e-bastard-nough. We’re fighting a fucking army out there, Sarnt.”
There were nine tanks to the front.
“Well, don’t fucking miss then, you pillock. Show me you’re as good as you reckon you are, eh?”
“ON!”
Butler’s automatic call was responded to equally automatically.
“FIRE!”
Another T-34 shuddered under a hammer blow, the engine compartment immediately spouting a firm candle of fire.
“Apparently, you tell everyone you’re the fucking bees fucking knees, so prove it!”
A shell struck the wall, sending pieces of stone smashing against the armour plate.
“Five degrees, left gunner! Target tank.”
The turret rotated effortlessly.
“ON!”
“FIRE!”
The shell struck, deflecting off through the frightened men clinging to the back of the T-34, sending a deluge of pieces in all directions.
“You tosser! You missed!”
“I hit it, Sarnt.
“Well then, hit the bastard again!”
“ON!”
“FIRE!”
The shell punched through the turret ring, transforming the interior into a charnel house.
“Right, Bert, shake it up, man! Reverse up behind the building, then right across the street. Move it, will you!
The Comet moved back, as two more shells struck the stonewall.
Ramsey did not have a radio with him; that remained in the western defensive positions.
However, he now had a field telephone in position, a working EE9 US Army model, which now screeched at him in an urgent fashion.
“Ramsey.”
As he could see the other position, code and formality was unnecessary.
“Major, the Reds have tanks and infantry in our rear, coming from Rechtern in Regimental strength.”
Thought and deed were very different
‘Jesus Christ!’
“Righty ho, Captain. Orient yourself mainly on that axis. I assume that racket is our lads from the Derbyshires?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Fine, make sure you support them with some infantry. I’m relying on you to hold them back for as long as you can, clear?”
The reply was lost in a whirl of thought.
‘This bridge is suddenly very important. I’m missing something.’
Back in the now, Ramsey issued further instructions.
“I think the next bridge up had extra reserves. 1st Black Watch lads. Send a runner. Get them up here, as quickly as possible.”
Soviet mortar shells started to fall, to the second that the rain stopped once again, and sunlight burst through the clouds.
“Once that’s done, get onto Brigade and tell them the situation. I am going to destroy the bridge within the next forty-five minutes. You…,” he summoned up a mental image of the pale face of the modest blonde officer, “We…We must hold for an hour. That is an order, Captain.”
“Yes, Sir. Good luck, Sir.”
Ramsey looked automatically towards the bridge defences, and caught the end of Grayson’s salute.
He returned it across the divide, and prepared to live his last few minutes on earth in a manner befitting an English Officer.
“Stand to! Stand to!”
The shout, once voice at first, then repeated around the whole Black Watch position, as other voices took up the warning.
On the extreme corner of the hillock, one Corporal gave an order to fire, and the Vickers started its deadly work.
Through the trees to their front came a horde of Soviet infantry, driven forward by their NCO’s and officers, their losses growing as more weapons joined in the defence.
Ramsey spared a look towards the underpass, from where men emerged carrying the artillery shells, two men to each, bodies hunched in fear and anticipation.
On the other side of the railway embankment, more firing erupted, proof that the Americans had troubles of their own.
“Mac.”
The corporal raised his head.
“Aye, Boss?”
“I want you and your pair to watch the top of the embankment. Kill anything on it, and keep me informed please.”
“Right enough, Boss.”
As the volume of offensive fire increased, more and more Soviet bullets whipped through the trees and undergrowth, removing pieces of the greenery in large clumps. A smaller fir tree fell to the earth, its trunk sawn in half by hot lead.
Sparing a swift look at the bridge, Ramsey was encouraged to see that the pile of artillery shells had grown.
A nearby Bren gunner screamed as the top of his head was removed by fast travelling metal, his weapon falling silent.
The loader looked on in shock, immobilised by the sight of his friend and the spray of blood that had lashed his face.
Ramsey shouted from his position.
“Private Fraser!”
Nothing.
Ramsey repeated himself, drawing the same blank.
Shouldering his Sten gun, he propelled himself up and over the edge of the position, rolling and slithering into the Bren pit, beside the petrified Fraser.
“Come on now, Fraser. There’s work to do, lad.”
The nineteen year old looked at his commanding officer through watery, uncomprehending eyes.
“Come on lad, come on now! What will you think of yourself in the morning?”
The tears continued, but the soldier started the process of composing himself.
Ramsey grasped the boy’s neck and gently shook him.
“Come on now, laddie, show the Reds how the clans make war eh?”
A Lance Corporal, keen to know why the Bren was silent, rushed to the pit, and threw himself on top of Ramsey.
“Jings, ah’m sorrah, Boss!”
Although winded, Ramsey managed a response.
“Don’t make a habit of it, McClendon, especially as we haven’t been formally introduced.”
“Aye, Major. We’ll no be daeing it tomorrah anyways, and that’s fer sure.”
The Major grinned and slapped the NCO on the shoulder.
“Stay with young Fraser for a bit, just until you can get back safely to your own position.”
That was not what Ramsey meant, and both McLinden and Fraser knew it, but it sufficed to save the young lad’s blushes.
Ramsey was up and out of the hole in an instant, fighting the new pains in his chest and stomach, and making the distance to his own position in short order.
He collapsed into cover, conscious that McLinden’s unexpected arrival had probably sprung a couple of ribs.
McEwan waited for the officer to recover.
“The bas tried the top like ye said, Boss. They’re all doon.”
A swift look was enough to confirm the presence of nearly a dozen bodies, some wearing the tell tale cylinders of flamethrower troops.
“Well done, Mac.”
“Oh, there’s more, Sah.
The finger pointed down a path that afforded a restricted view of the top of part of the embankment, almost certainly some seven hundred metres away.
“I dinna know what they are, but for sure, they’re big bas, Sah.”
Searching his memory, the briefing document he sought came clearly into view.
“Stalin tanks, look like mark three’s, Mac. Very nasty.”
‘Well that’s us up shit creek without a paddle!’
“RSM!”
Robertson heard the call and stopped bandaging his wrist, laid open to the bone by a wood splinter.
He sprinted to the HQ hole.
“RSM, the enemy is pushing heavy tanks up the rail line, on top of the embankment.”
Ramsey extended his arm down the same line that Mac had indicated. They both looked, but the monsters were now not apparent, a cloudburst obscuring them.
“They’re there for sure. The Yanks have got two Bazookas. Get a runner over to them, and let them know the Stalins are their problem for now.”