Fresh orders cascaded down through 5th Shock Army, and the whole force went over to the attack, part of which displaced the American defences at Laimnau.
The commander of the 60th Guards Rifle Division, a number of his units pressing the retreating force northwards, sought and received permission to test other defences, and took the opportunity to also exceed his orders by sending a large group westwards down Route 7709.
Allied forces – Task Force Butcher [remnants of L and H coys of 359th Infantry Regiment and a composite reinforced Platoon from 305th Engineer Combat Battalion], all of 90th Infantry Division, and Task Force Hardegen [elements of 37th Tank Battalion, 53rd Armored Infantry Battalion and 25th Cavalry Squadron], and Composite Battery, 66th Armored Field Artillery Battalion, all of 4th US Armored Division, all of US 17th Corps, of US Third Army, of US 6th Army Group.
Soviet forces – 1st Battalion, 185th Guards Rifle Regiment, of 60th Guards Rifle Division, of 32nd Rifle Corps, and 2nd & 3rd Companies of 116th Independent Engineer Sapper Battalion, and 379th Guards Rocket Mortar Battalion, and 2nd Company, 1504th Self-Propelled Gun Regiment, and Armoured Group ‘Antonov’ [112th Guards Tank Battalion, 67th Guards Reconnaissance Platoon, 67th Guards SMG Company & 1st Company, 92nd Engineer Tank Battalion], all of 5th Shock Army, of 3rd Red Banner Central European Front.
Major Butcher was in command, and he let everyone know it.
A recent arrival in the ‘Tough ‘Ombres’, he had seen some combat time with the 8th Division in the Hürtgenwald before being wounded. Other non-combat assignments followed, until the Army could no longer spare him, and he found himself placed at the head of a composite infantry group and rushed to block the Argen river crossings.
The Armored Force Major was not going to get into a pissing contest with the obnoxious man, so deferred to his command, especially as the dispositions that had been set seemed reasonable.
Major John Johannes Hardegen was not to know that the acceptable efforts of Task Force Butcher had little to do with their namesake, and were more due to the efforts of a slight Captain from L Company, and a wizened Master Sergeant in H Company.
Given the dubious honour of point duty, Sergeant Fusilov tentatively ordered his T-70 light tank to advance.
The ’70 was a two-man reconnaissance tank, in which the driver drove, and the commander did everything else from serve the gun to use the radio.
At the moment, Fusilov was concerned with only one matter; that of survival
With binoculars seemingly glued in place, his head swept left to right and back, halting while his eyes examined a clump of bushes here, a stand of trees there.
Others from the recon unit moved warily on the flanks.
A flash of static warned Fusilov and he ordered his driver forward at the same moment that Lieutenant Gregorov got on his case.
“Push up, Fusilov, push up quicker. Don’t be an old woman.”
Removing his eyes from the binoculars for the briefest of moments, the experienced reconnaissance NCO hawked and spat off to one side, his crewman judging it a suitable reply to that asshole of an officer.
Gregorov was new and keen to impress, regardless of the effect he had on the men around him. He cared solely for the next rank and glory.
Recon Platoon had already lost two tanks due to his pushing too hard, something that he seemed to neither regret nor remember.
Emerging from behind a building on the edge of UnterWolfhertsweiler, the T70 moved swiftly around a long right-hand bend.
Fusilov suddenly tensed.
“Driver, hard left into the woods.”
Needing no second invitation, the tank slipped down the gears and did a 90° left, heading up a rough track, and into the apparent safety of thick woods.
The radio hissed again.
“What now, Fusilov? I need you pushing forward, not hiding.”
Keying the microphone, Fusilov spoke in the soft tones of men used to spending their time in close proximity to the enemy.
“Comrade Leytenant. The fields on the right show signs of recent vehicle movement. I have taken cover to assess before reporting. Over and out.”
Not quite proper radio procedure, but good enough for the moment.
Fusilov had an itch he couldn’t scratch, and it wasn’t just the bent grass and damaged hedges.
The binoculars swept the ground, seeking further clues to his unease.
The remainder of the recon platoon had gone to ground, with the exception of Lieutenant Gregorov, who felt the eyes of Berzarin himself upon him, and acted accordingly.
Spitting again, the incredulous NCO watched as his commander’s jeep bounced up the road and moved left, onto the same track he had followed. It slid to a halt next to his T70.
“Serzhant Fusilov, what the fuck do you think you are doing?”
Discarding his first thoughts, Fusilov prepared a properly respectful response.
Unnecessarily, as it happened.
“Serzhant, get your fucking vehicle up that road now. You’re supposed to fucking scout! So fucking scout, not lie around in the shade while better men do the work!”
Not trusting himself to speak, the NCO saluted and dropped into the turret, ordering the driver to take the light tank forward as slowly as he could manage, staying within the apron of the wood.
The jeep raced away, taking Gregorov off to harangue another of his tank commanders. Just south of the river, the T70 he had been similarly encouraging, had slipped into a small stand of trees on the riverbank.
By chance, Fusilov cast a glance at the jeep at the moment of detonation.
The yellow light came first, swiftly followed by the hard crump of an explosion.
‘Mines!’
The jeep was flipped onto its top, and was already well alight. The driver, at least Fusilov thought it was the driver, was struggling to escape, pinned under the weight of the wrecked vehicle.
Dropping his glasses to his chest, he used his wider vision to detect the other body, even now struggling to its feet, some yards away from the site of the mine’s detonation.
‘Gregorov. You damn fool!’
The screams of the trapped driver reached the Sergeant’s ears, and he sought some kind of recognition in his officer’s face; some sign that he would respond to the petrified man.
There was none.
Nor could there have been.
Gregorov was deaf and blind, the former temporary, the latter permanent.
“Malinky-two-two, this is Drook-one-zero, report, over.”
The deep voice of Antonov, the 112th Guards Tank Battalion commander, was unmistakable. He had seen the event from his position in UnterWolfhertsweiler.
“Drook-one-zero, Malinky-two-zero has struck a mine and is out of action. Two-two now in command. Mines to north of main road. Signs of enemy movement in same area, over.”
“Is ‘Voskrenseny’ occupied?”
Both Antonov and Fusilov looked at the ruined old farm, considered indefensible in their planning. It had also been disregarded by the US defenders.
“Drook-one-zero, Malinky-two-two, no sign of any defenders. Position is open from my position, over.”
“Received two-two. Is the road clear, over?”
Guards Lieutenant Colonel Antonov was not standing on ceremony.