Enough eyes swiveled to an insensible lump in the corner for him to get the full picture in an instant.
Snorting in disgust, Mearns moved to Towers and threw up a salute.
“Captain, we bugged out as you see, three wounded, one dead. Took a light tank out before we left. I’ve slotted my platoon in at the end of the track there.”
Towers nodded, rubbing his bruised right hand, for no other reason than it hurt like hell.
“OK, Win, you get them settled in there. Just spoke to tanks, and they are still sitting on plan.”
Towers jerked a thumb at the inert form.
“That prick lost it and called fire. Now we have to go with that.”
Another volley of artillery shells punctuated the statement, closer this time, walked forward by Travers.
Both men checked the approaching enemy, largely obscured by the smoke and flames of the farm buildings, as mortars and tank guns reduced it to rubble.
“Keep your eyes skinned for the flares, and when they come, move like grease lightning clear?”
“You got it, Captain.”
Mearns knew the plan, they all did, but he understood that Towers was going to reinforce the message all he could.
They exchanged salutes and Mearns left the CP, pausing only to chuckle over the unconscious officer.
1435hrs, Tuesday, 25th September 1945, Soviet assault force, west of Wolfertsweiler, Germany.
Antonov had lost two tanks, one of the PT’s and an IS-II, both from the same group, both to direct artillery strikes.
The enemy artillery started to walk back, dropping just in front of his vehicles.
Ordering his men to move slowly he found his attack force approaching the first objective behind a curtain of smoke and earth kindly created by the Allied artillery.
“Time to move forward, I think. Driver!”
The IS-II moved smoothly through the gears.
The explosion blew off the track.
The young Lieutenant, already a veteran of a score of battles, cursed his driver.
Eager to push forward, the IS-II had slipped outside the area disturbed by the passage of the Mugalev, and found a mine.
Needing no second invitation, the infantrymen had already dismounted, three of them working to save the life of their Corporal, desperately wounded in the mine’s blast.
Although sympathetic, the Lieutenant had no choice.
“Get him out of the way now. We need room to work here, Comrades.”
The infantry gently removed the heavily bleeding NCO, permitting the tank crew to set to work repairing the track, removing spare links from the rack on the front of the tank.
As they worked quickly, removing the bent and twisted links, replacing them with spares, a voice called for help.
Two of the infantrymen went to investigate, and returned leading the blinded Gregorov, his uniform more red than brown, the destroyed and empty eye sockets horrifying to all who beheld him.
One of the 67th’s recovery vehicles arrived to assist in the track work, closely followed by an ambulance, which whisked both Gregorov and the dying Corporal away.
Antonov was pleased, but knew that things could change in an instant.
His lead elements were now up with ‘Vtornik’ and the enemy artillery had stopped.
Reports from the sappers on the riverbank indicated nothing, save a few enemy soldiers having run from ‘Vtornik’ some while ago.
It all seemed too good to be true, and being an officer who had survived many encounters with the Germans, Antonov suspected it was.
Nevertheless, he determined to push it as far as it would go.
“All units, Drook-one-zero, execute Dva, execute Dva.”
On his order, Katyushas of the 379th opened up, plastering the area to the west of the river, paying particular attention to the high ground that dominated both bridges.
His 120mm mortars, more precise in their targeting, brought every tube to bear on Route 7776 and the buildings to the east.
The 1504th’s SU76’s dropped their HE shells in the woods surrounding the river, south of the Route 467 road bridge, codenamed ‘Pyatnetsa’.
The IS-II’s pushed forward slowly, but with purpose, and the infantry advanced across the whole frontage of the assault.
Crossing the 7707, the 1st Company emerged from the woods, crossed a small brook and advanced to cut Route 7776, and drive into the flank of the defending force in and around Subota. The 2nd Engineers cut across open land, rounding the small stream, focusing on their objective of the 467 bridge, light fire plucking the life from a man here and there. Defending fire was light, rifles and machine-guns in the main, all originating from the area being flayed by the infantry’s mortars.
3rd Company of the 185th charged from their hiding place, and was on top of the Weilandbach bridge in an instant.
The Sappers on the river line, 3rd Company, pushed up, staying tight to the river. They ran straight into booby traps and mines, stopping them in their tracks.
2nd Company of Soviet infantry pushing up behind the advancing tanks, half ran, half walked, moving up the tracks left by the Mugalevs.
“Do it.”
Towers gave a Pfc the word, and a flare soared lazily into the autumn sky.
His men had brought down fire on the attackers, both the infantry to the south and the tank force to their front, the purpose of which was to announce their presence.
“Don’t forget to bring the Major!”
US infantrymen bolted from their positions, each believing another had undertaken the task, racing back the two hundred yards to the positions set out on the banks of the river.
The Soviet mortars continued to bring down fire, and men were killed and injured as they withdrew.
In the barn that had been the CP, Major Butcher slid himself upright, his vision blurry, his brain not functioning as it should.
Rubbing his face, trying to bring life to his vital senses, he sensed that all was not well.
As his vision slowly returned, he was greeted neither by the sight of friendly faces, nor by the smell of fresh coffee, nor the sound of American voices.
He was alone.
A shell crashed into the building, producing a red hot wave of tortured air and dust, shifting the already delicate structure from impending collapse to full blown disintegration.
Quickly trying to lever himself up, he found himself overtaken by a deluge of material as the upper storey folded in, compromising the first floor loading and bringing it and the ceiling down in dramatic fashion.
Butcher screamed in agony.
One large joist fell flat, striking both his knees simultaneously, shattering both, and pinning his legs to the stone floor, Part of a floorboard still attached to the joist, splintered and pointed where it had been ripped away as the heavier piece fell, was driven through his left thigh, smashing the femur into fragments.
He screamed as burning material fell around him, his hands beating ineffectively at the growing flames.
He screamed as the joist shifted, pinning him down harder, dragging the splintered section through his thigh muscle.
He screamed as his hands blistered and his hair caught on fire.
‘Not like this, I don’t want to die like this!’
“Jesus!”
And then he screamed no more.
1439hrs, Tuesday, 25th September 1945, US defensive position at Point ‘Sreda’, Argen River, Germany.
Towers was furious.
Not with the plan, that was working well, so it seemed. The Soviets were doing what had been hoped, and committing forward.
The Gods of War had finally seen fit to give him a painful token of battle.