It performed well against the new enemy and swiftly relieved the exhausted 101st Airborne.
The new positions assigned to the 7th Indian infantry Brigade covered the routes out of Wolfegg and the approaches to Vogt.
The 4th/16th Punjab Regiment, ably supported by two platoons of the 6th Rajputana MG Battalion, had stood firm in and around Vogt, British tanks from the 26th Armoured Brigade causing heavy casualties amongst the attacking T-34’s.
As the Soviet probes continued, the 2nd/11th Sikhs were pushed hard along their defensive line, set in parallel with Route 324 to the north of Vogt.
On Route 314 to the north, British soldiers of the 1st Royal Sussex Regiment folded back but did not give, forcing the attacking Soviet infantry and cavalry to retreat leaving scores of dead on the field.
An unusual error in Soviet attack scheduling had delayed the central assault, enabling the defending artillery to concentrate on assisting the Sussex Regiment before switching to the aid of the forces defending Routes 317 and 323.
Company Havildar Major Dhankumar Gurung looked around him, able to make out the shape of one of his men here, a weapon manned and ready there.
8th Platoon was quiet, safely hidden behind their tree trunks, protected by the hastily scraped foxholes, or comfortable in the old German trench.
Not one man had suffered any injury as the Soviet artillery, weak by comparison to normal, had probed the defensive positions of the Sirmoor Rifles.
Part of their line was a trench that was eight foot deep, wood reinforced, and with firing steps along its length. Some fading graffiti marked it as German, and a relic of the previous conflict.
Gurung’s soldiers had extended the trench, and taken advantage of natural depressions in the ground, as well as fallen tree trunks, creating a strong position from which to resist.
Thus far, the battalion had not seen an enemy, apart from the occasional flash of an aircraft overhead.
According to the legends of the British Army, no enemy relished fighting these wiry hill men from Nepal, and, to a man, they were keen to get to close quarters with the new foe to put their martial skills to the test against a strong and cunning enemy.
The Sirmoor Rifles, also known as the 1st/2nd [King Edward VII’s Own] Gurkha Rifles, waited in anticipation of the battle to come.
Allied forces – 1st/2nd [King Edward VII’s Own] Gurkha Rifles, and 2nd Platoon of ‘A’ Company of 6th Rajputana MG Battalion, both of 7th Indian Infantry Brigade, 3rd Royal Horse Artillery, and 11th Field Regiment, Royal Artillery, all of 4th Indian Division, directly attached to US 12th Army Group.
Soviet Forces – 3rd Battalion of 22nd Guards Cavalry Regiment of 5th Guards Cavalry Division, and 2nd Company, 1814th Self-Propelled Gun Regiment, and Special Group Orlov, 7th Guards Horse Artillery Regiment, all of 3rd Guards Cavalry Corps, 5th Guards Tank Army, 3rd Red Banner Central European Front.
“Are you fucking kidding, Comrade Kapitan?”
“No, I am not, Comrade Serzhant, and what’s more, we go in fifteen minutes because staff already fucked it up once.”
The old Cossack shook his head.
“They are fucking it up again then, Comrade Kapitan.”
He pointed in the direction of advance, emphasising his words.
“Those boys down there are proper infantry, with machine guns. They want us to charge them? Mudaks!”
“Calm yourself, Kazakov. Apparently this is not your first action.”
“That is why I question this order, Comrade Kapitan. It’s total fucking lunacy!”
Captain Babaev moved like a striking snake, the flat of his hand wiping itself loudly across the older man’s face.
“You shut your mouth, Serzhant, or I will shoot you myself!”
All around, the younger Cossacks froze at the sound of flesh striking flesh, their eyes drawn to the growing red weal on Kazakov’s cheek, the ferocity of the blow becoming more apparent with the darkening of the skin.
Kazakov froze, controlling his breathing, his mind racing.
Babaev looked at him with unconcealed contempt.
“You boast constantly of the action you have seen and the men you have killed, and yet all I hear from you is whining about being sent to fight.”
The officer cleared his throat, intent on completing the NCO’s humiliation.
“I say enough of it, Kazakov! I demote you to Private immediately, and you will lead the attack!”
To the watchers, it seemed that a strange peace settled on Kazakov. The few that really knew the man understood that a white fury was consuming the ‘former’ sergeant.
Finishing the job, Babaev summoned one of the observers to him.
“Comrade Levadniy, you are now Serzhant. Don’t let us down.”
“Thank you, Comrade Kapitan.”
The new sergeant saluted respectfully, avoiding the burning eyes of the previous incumbent, slipping quickly away to find some rank markings.
Kapitan Babaev poked his finger into Kazakov’s right breast, hard enough to cause the man to sway under the blow. His finger flicked up at the medal that was the pride and joy of the man he had come to despise.
“The Order of the Red Star, for which I have been unable to find any proof of entitlement I might add!”
Kazakov’s eyes moved upwards, making the eye contact that he had been trying hard to avoid.
“The divisional records are meticulous, except when it comes to you it seems.”
Kazakov exhaled slowly in an effort to control himself.
“I wanted to strip you of it, but the Colonel prevented it.”
The former Sergeant’s eyes blazed openly, his fury feeding on the officer’s words.
“So we have agreed to give you the chance to earn it. That is why you are leading the attack.”
Stepping half a pace closer, Babaev leaned his head forward so that the distance between their faces was the length of a cigarette.
“And you fuck up in any way, any way at all Kazakov, and I will shoot you down like the cowardly dog you are. Clear, Comrade?”
Babaev misunderstood the delay for compliance, whereas it was a moment of debate for the ex-sergeant. He decided against his preferred course of action and replied, coolly and softly.
“Understood completely, Comrade Kapitan.”
“Excellent. Now fuck off and get yourself ready, Comrade Private Kazakov.”
Babaev smiled openly as the defeated man strode off, removing his epaulettes as he went.
The officer checked his watch, noting that he still had twelve minutes before the attack commenced.
He lit a cigarette and consumed the rich smoke avidly, happily unaware that it was the last he would ever smoke, and that his life had seventeen minutes to run.
22nd Regiment had not conducted a horsed charge for over two years, the fighting mainly being done on foot with a few disappointed Cossacks left behind to restrain their mounts.
The general plan was to deliver a horsed cavalry charge into the positions of the Indian troopers, using the woods as a cover, accepting that the upright trunks would both conceal and break up the advance, slowing it to a modest running pace at times.
A small probe had already established that both roads were mined and to be avoided.
The woods were heavy, but gaps between trees were wide, and there was little thick undergrowth to halt the surge. The Pine trees had no low-lying branches to foul the riders, and so the normally unthinkable seemed feasible, at least to those who ordered the attack.