Ramsey prepared himself, knowing that the enemy could not be stopped before they closed on his positions.
He became aware of some screaming and shouting, feet running past his hole, heading to his front.
Some soldiers fell, men clad in the uniform of the 1st Battalion, Black Watch, but others, led by the mad Irish CSM, charged headlong into the Guards infantry, putting them to flight with a combination of rifle butt and bayonet.
Recalling his men, CSM Green spread them out to fill the gaps in the depleted B Company positions, and then went in search of Ramsey.
“Close call that, Sarnt-Major. Thank you.”
“Think nothing of it, Sir. But if you’ll take my advice, I’d get the feck out of here, soonest.”
Turning back to point across the river, Green did a double take.
“You sneaky fucking bastards you! Major!”
Soviet infantry were moving slowly up the riverbank, intent on making a surprise rush on the bridge.
Ramsey kept his eye on them, assessing the risk. He shouted at Robertson, and he pointed in the direction of the river.
“RSM!”
Robertson saw them immediately, and shouted in his best parade ground voice.
“Second platoon, with me, action to the rear!”
A handful of men rose up and followed Robertson to the back of the mound, flopping into loose cover, waiting on the word.
Ramsey was already on the field telephone to Grayson.
“Captain Grayson, there’s at least a company of reds moving up tight to the river to your south; some in the water, some on the bank. The RSM is about to engage, but you might like to make arrangements yourself.”
On cue, Enfield rifles and 2nd Platoon’s surviving Bren gun began their deadly harvest, the wading men horribly exposed and vulnerable.
Within seconds, the gently flowing waters were tinted red, bodies floating, wounded men floundering and drowning.
Fielding dropped in beside Ramsey, his cheek laid open by a mortar splinter.
“We’re all ready, Major. Ignition point is just to the left of the entrance there. Two minutes of fuse. Safe point is this end of the bridge and no closer.”
“Two minutes? I wanted the position at the end of the bridge, Lieutenant!”
“We couldn’t do it in the time, plus we had problems, bad det cord, Sir.”
He could not decide if that was good or bad.
“But we’re set, yes?”
“Yep, we sure are, Major. Some of the cord was unusable, but we done the best with it we could, and I guarantee it’ll do the job. Plus,” conscious of the fire fights that raged in all directions, Fielding added unnecessarily, “Two minutes seems like all we’re gonna get.”
“Fair enough. Well done, Lieutenant.”
“We’ll save that for when the fucker blows, I think, Major. Now, I’ll do it, but we have to get your boys well back. The 29th boys are already moving.”
“What?”
“The 29th boys are already moving, Major.”
“Too soon, they’re falling back too soon!”
“But your commander ordered it. The Kraut top kick took orders from a runner, direct from your man Dunne.”
Ramsey knew that could not be the case, as the last information he had was that Dunne was totally incapacitated with shock.
Ramsey did not know that a GRU agent within Kommando Friedrich had acted on instinct, and interfered with the defence in a dramatic and terminal fashion.
That the man was killed by his own mortars was just the fortunes of war, his sacrifice forever unknown to his family, peers, and Motherland.
Six of Yarishlov’s tanks were knocked out, the others either hidden away from the demon tank, or scurrying at top speed for anything that could provide safety.
The infantry had pushed up, and it had seemed that they would carry the position, until innocuous bushes exploded into life, and whole lines of men were swept away.
From his rear position, he was able to spot some of the vehicles responsible, and destroyed two, but the others continued to flay Deniken’s men as they milled around, thrown into total disarray.
“What the fuck are they firing? I want some, Sarnt!”
Griffiths was also in awe of what they were witnessing.
A number of different weapon systems had come together to halt Deniken’s men.
Gun mounts from the 554th AAA, quadruple .50 cals in Maxson turrets, mounted on M20 trailers, did great damage. However, they were vulnerable to counter fire, as the crews exposed themselves when re-ammunitioning the weapons. Similarly, the three 40mm Bofors that hammered the approaching masses with HE shells were vulnerable, their servants all exposed to the lightest of fire.
The weapons which drew the admiration of ‘Lady Hamilton’s’ crew were T33 Motor Gun Carriages, sporting 37mm guns, weapons more effective in the previous decade but thrown into the fight here, instead of languishing in a run-down depot on Salisbury Plain.
As anti-tank guns they were obsolete, but in the role needed that the day, they ruled supreme.
At short range, the 37mm’s M2 canister shells were like shotguns, producing a widening stream of 122 steel balls, each one capable of taking a man’s life.
Whole squads were wiped away, chopped to pieces by streams of metal, all reminiscent of a battlefield, another continent, and century away, when a place called Cemetery Ridge ran with the blood of brave men.
It was a slaughter that shocked both sides, those involved, and those watching.
Yarishlov shouted into his radio.
“Pull them back, in the name of the Motherland, pull them back, Deniken!”
Command and control was lost, but Deniken was already doing what he could to rescue his command.
The assault from Rechtern had been stopped.
It had all gone wrong.
Soviet infantry had moved into the vacuum created by the withdrawal of Bluebear and Hässler, and the veteran soldiers were already bringing the east end of the bridge under close fire, albeit carefully, understanding the nature of the ominous pile in the centre of the single span.
Yet more Soviet infantry were in the west entrance to the underpass, although understandably lacking in a desire to rush into an area containing munitions dressed with explosives and detonating cord.
Ramsey’s unit was virtually surrounded, the enemy troopers across the river finding better positions, and returning fire on the covering 2nd Platoon.
Picking up the field telephone, he spoke quickly with Grayson.
“Captain, get Fielding to set the charges on the bridge now. Keep the Reds off him while he works. We have to blow that bridge. Clear?”
“Fielding isn’t here, Sir. His sergeant is in charge and work is nearly complete. Hang on, Sir.”
Ramsey risked a look at the west bank and saw Grayson shouting towards the pile of shells. He then rushed back to his main position.
Grayson’s excited voice could be heard in the background, getting a quick heads-up from his man.
He took the telephone handset.
“Sir, give him four minutes. Then he can blow it. Just four minutes.”
“Are all the 116th boys back over the bridge now, Grayson?”
“No, Sir, not all. Still some of the yanks hanging on at the east end, giving the engineers some breathing space.”
Ramsey ducked instinctively, a mortar shell striking the ground to the left of his hole, showering him with earth and bits of vegetation.
“And what’s your situation, Captain?”
“Holding, Sir. The main force was stopped south of town. Very messy, so I’m told. Aitcherson’s on the spot and waiting to see what they do next.”