The napalm attacks on to the positions south and south-west had drawn many eyes, euphoria turning to sympathy, sympathy turning to fear, fear knocking on the door of panic.
Many an eye turned at the approaching four aircraft.
“Jesus Christ! They’re going to attack us!”
Grayson leapt from the hole before finishing his words, loading the flare pistol, knowing he was too late.
“You stupid useless fucking bastards!”
Sixteen canisters detached from the Allied attack aircraft, hitting the ground within seconds of each other, and spreading their version of death amongst the Allied soldiers who screamed and cursed the already empty sky.
Across the river, Hässler was squealing with horror as the fire washed over everything.
Grayson disappeared in an orange wall, the rising fiery killer moving forward at high speed, engulfing everything and everyone the Master Sergeant could see across the Hunte.
“Rosie!”
Hässler had sent the wounded corporal back across the river on an unimportant errand, keen to get him away from certain death on the east bank.
Even Bluebear stopped fighting, the wall of flames drawing his eye, horrifying even a man whose style of fighting brought him close and personal to the enemy in an extremely brutal and messy way.
Across the river, friends and comrades had been incinerated in the blink of an eye.
Some staggered around, enveloped in flames, lungs burnt by hot gases, unable to scream.
Others ran squealing noisily, their clothes and flesh falling from them as the sticky jelly did its horrible work.
Two Soviet soldiers, intent on nothing but self-preservation, dropped into the hole, not knowing that it was already occupied.
Death was waiting for them in its most horrible form.
Hässler watched horrified as Bluebear’s tomahawk rose swiftly up and down, two blows for each disoriented guardsman, both faces quickly driven in, easily yielding to the heavy blows.
Still one lived, at least for the briefest of moments, a third blow ending his struggle for breath.
Wide-eyed, the Master Sergeant felt shock creeping over him, and punched his thigh in an attempt to break out of it.
Bluebear understood, and a large hand wiped itself across the German-American’s face, the sound of the slap penetrating into Hässler’s consciousness as much as the pain of the blow.
“Master Sergeant. Now is not time. Later we mourn. Now, we get outta of here.”
The two men slithered out of the hole and down to the water’s edge, moving to the north and away from the hell on earth behind them.
Yarishlov was unsteady on his feet, but made the journey anyway, supported by Deniken and Kriks.
Helping him into the jeep, Deniken climbed aboard as Kriks started the vehicle on its journey.
All around them, men of the Obinin assault force lay dead, killed by one of nature’s most terrible forces.
None was recognisable.
And the smell.
Not even the rain could remove it.
An overriding taste of petroleum pervaded the air that they reluctantly dragged into their lungs, almost narcotic in its intensity.
Not as strong, but with their own special pungency, were the diverse smells of the burning, fuelled by rubber, wood, and man.
The sights were too awful, even for men used to the extremes of combat.
All three cried, the smoke undoubtedly playing its part, stinging their eyes, but their basic humanity was the larger contributor.
No guns, no explosions, no cries of pain.
The battlefield was silent now, the growing wind that distributed the fine ashes providing the soft steady accompaniment to the sound of the jeep’s engine, gently cajoling the vehicle through the horrors of war.
All who would die had died. Those who were alive, too shocked to even talk, would survive the day.
Here and there, blackened soldiers and tankers shared cigarettes and canteens in silence, scarcely acknowledging the passing of their senior officers.
Moving on through the carnage, the rail bridge came into view.
Intact.
“Blue Three to lead. Those seagulls sound excited, Flight.”
“Blue leader, roger. Now shut up.”
Hall was trying hard to work out where the hell they were, the squalls and low cloud making any sort of navigation difficult for the one-man Typhoons of Blue flight.
The airwaves had been full of the sound of the Fleet Air Arm attack, the seagulls as they were affectionately called, calling in successful drop after successful drop.
Regardless of the urgency of the situation, Hall had to face facts. They were lost.
‘Think it through man! Think it through!’
He summoned up the map in his mind’s eye, ignoring the one in his lap, seeing his airfield, factoring in the wind, the speed, working the problem.
“Blue Two to leader, over,”
The train of thought was ruptured, and he responded in a clipped tone, convinced he had nearly solved the problem.
“Blue leader, Blue Two, this better be good, over.”
“Skipper, that’s a main road off to our right there. I think it’s the 214, over.”
Hall looked at the break in the clouds.
“Blue section, slow turn to port, execute.”
The four aircraft turned lazily left, circling the break, examining the ground below.
“Blue leader to Blue Two. I don’t recognise it, over.”
Hall knew little of his number two, except he had been shot down twice in the German War, and had claimed three and one third aircraft destroyed.
“Blue Two to Blue leader. That town up ahead. See the five-point junction? That’s Diepholz, Skipper. I went with a girl from there in June. That’s Diepholz for sure, over.”
The map almost leapt from Hall’s lap, the paper pattern reflecting the junctions on the ground below. A swift look to the northeast was all he needed.
“Blue Leader to Blue Two, spot on Wallace, spot on. Blue section, turn to port, heading zero-four-zero.”
The four Typhoons turned and applied the power again, following Route 51 north from Diepholz to Barnstorf.
‘Intact?’
Deniken gave voice to their thoughts.
“It’s intact.”
The sight brought Yarishlov back to some sort of reality.
“We’ve done it, tovarich, we’ve done it!”
The infantry officer was already leaning across to the radio pack, seeking out Obinin to pass on the good news.
Yarishlov, coming out of his brain freeze, barked an order, forgetting the nature of his present company.
“Never mind that, Comrade. Order every available anti-aircraft gun here now. The allied fliers will be here, once they know it still stands.”
Neither man would have believed that such an important structure had not even figured in the Allied plans before they attacked, so imagining it as a priority target now that they held it in their hands was easy.
Deniken understood, and sent out the appeal, one that was taken up by other commanders, understanding the opportunity they had been presented with, as well as how fragile that opportunity could prove to be.
The SPAA weapons from 4th Guards Tank were the first to arrive, having been less than a kilometre away and already on the move.
They would have to suffice.
“Blue Three to Blue Leader, enemy tanks and vehicles, twelve o’clock low, hundreds of them, Flight!”
Four pairs of eyes looked down and forward, the sight as impressive as it was daunting.
Hall checked the map as he flicked the radio switch.
“Quartermaster, Quartermaster, this is Broadsword Blue leader, over.”
An air controller with very little to control immediately acknowledged.