“Now go, soldier, and keep my friend live.”
McEwan snapped to attention, the other Scottish soldier following suit, both men throwing up tremendous salutes as only the British Army could do to total perfection in the very oddest of circumstances.
Swinging into the driver’s seat, McEwan waited for the other man to be settled next to Ramsey before letting out the clutch, and moving away.
Deniken stood beside Yarishlov in silence, both men watching the disappearing 4x4. One reciting a silent prayer to a God he didn’t believe in, pleading for the life of a man he barely knew, the other, full of questions over what he had just been party to.
The prayer remained unfinished, the questions unspoken.
“Air attack!”
Experience gave both men wings, and they dropped into a nearby position, the horrible nature of its contents immaterial, its quality of cover paramount.
A single aircraft slashed in from the south, its cannon churning up the water before lashing the bridge.
The engineer officer disappeared in a burst of red, chewed up by cannon shells.
Both men hugged the bottom of the trench, expecting the stack of munitions to yield to the enemy attack.
Surprisingly, they did not.
AA weapons started rattling out as the aircraft circled for another attack, joined by anything on the ground that a soldier could point skywards.
The Typhoon swept in again, this time lower, leaving a vibrating trail in the water, as its turbulent wake and discarded shell casings disturbed the river’s surface.
Yarishlov, stealing a look over the edge of the trench, could see the pilot clearly, so low and close was the Typhoon.
He watched fascinated as sprays of blood obscured the enemy flyer, the red Perspex hiding what lay within.
The pain was excruciating, as was the feeling of failure.
McKenzie had been hit by two bullets.
The one that caused his blood to squirt over the inside of the cockpit was the lesser of the two wounds; head wounds always bled profusely.
The other wound was more serious, a 12.7mm round having entered low through his right side and out the left hand side of his stomach, wrecking the pilot’s bladder, and much else that was less vital as it journeyed through.
The Hispano cannons had fallen silent before their time, ammunition expended.
Pulling back on the stick, the young Canadian felt the Typhoon rebel as more strikes caused damage.
The propeller was now shuddering permanently, and the aircraft needed a permanent right pedal to stop it turning sideways.
Turning to port again, he felt the aircraft stagger under a hammer blow, a single cannon shell slamming into the side of the fuselage, and into the engine compartment.
The result was immediate and impressive.
The Typhoon caught fire, the shell hole emitting a long spectacular orange streak as damaged fuel lines fed an intense fire.
The same fire swiftly started to eat its way into the cockpit, and McKenzie’s right foot was immediately affected, pushed forward, as it was, on the pedal.
Despite the pain, he kept his boot in position, his mind made up.
He turned the aircraft and lined up on the rail bridge.
Deniken was shouting at his men, knowing the aircraft was coming in again.
Yarishlov watched incredulously as the dying airplane drove onwards, guns silent, its fiery tail growing with every second.
In the final few seconds, the red smear in the cockpit became visible again, illuminated from inside by the growing fire that was obviously consuming the pilot.
None the less, the Typhoon held steady and plunged directly into the centre of the rail bridge.
The explosion was immediate, and devastating.
The noise was so loud that everything went quiet, those unfortunate to be too close clutched their ears, permanently damaged by the shock wave and intense sound.
Those who were closer still either clutched their wounds or lay dead.
Durestov, running away from the river, was transformed into a red smear on the earth, as the bulk of the Typhoon’s Sabre engine briefly occupied the same piece of woodland as he did.
With his death, the Battle of Barnstorf ended, and to draw a fitting line under the battle, Mother Nature brought down her heaviest rain, and most violent thunderstorm.
Barnstorf.
A battle the Allies had most certainly lost.
A battle the Soviets had apparently won.
Except for the fact that no suitable bridge remained over the Hunte.
Except for the fact that thousands of their men lay dead upon the field.
And except for what would come next.
Chapter 101 – THE AFTERMATH
The allocation of blame often has more to do with your availability than your culpability.
Eisenhower gripped the telephone, unable to grasp what McCreery had just said.
“Incredible. Really incredible. Our troops have done magnificently this week. Pass on a well done to your men, General.”
Ike’s face lost much of its pleasure as the commander of 21st Army Group relayed the butcher’s bill.
Bedell-Smith, Hood and Rossiter had sat back, already satisfied with the events of the last few days, expecting McCreery’s report to substantiate the original communications, confirming that the Soviet Baltic Front had been stopped.
Quite clearly, Eisenhower’s body language and grim expression spoke of issues not previously communicated.
“I’m sorry to hear that, General, truly I am.”
Only Rossiter had noticed Ike making notations as he listened.
“I will do what I can, and I expect I may well be able to give you some quality units soon. In the meantime, hold the line, General, and thank you again.”
Eisenhower replaced the receiver and took a moment to reflect.
“Gentlemen, as we heard earlier, the Baltic Front assault along the Hunte River has been stopped,” a natural pause as the commander licked his lips, “But only at great cost.”
Consulting the note he had made, Ike passed on the grim news.
“The British 3rd Division was badly damaged, so too the 5th Guards Armored Brigade. Both the 29th Infantry and the 51st Highlanders have been wiped out, and in the case of the Scottish, that leaves just a few artillery and support elements. The rest of the unit died on the Hunte River and beyond.”
A respectful silence was observed before he continued.
“On the up side, it seems that they dealt the Communists a heavy blow. On the conservative side, the Reds lost over three hundred tanks and fifty thousand men in their whole operation.”
Another look at the note and he could continue with confidence.
“Reports say that three British squadrons, two Royal Navy, and another from the RAF, were able to perform ground attacks against packed ground targets, with spectacular results.”
It wasn’t totally accurate information, but as good as he was going to get for some time.
Taking a cigarette from his pack, Eisenhower flicked open his lighter and drew deeply on the resulting rich smoke.
“Well then, it seems we have finally stopped the bastards.”
His statement encompassed so much, from the incredible efforts of the ground and air forces, the Soviets own supply issues, and the continued intervention of partisan and Kommando units throughout Europe.
Such was the impact of the week’s events, and McCreery’s call, that no one noticed the unusual profanity from their Supreme Commander.
Raising his coffee mug, Eisenhower offered a toast.