“Check it… fuck, you alright, Oleg?”
“It hurts but I can see.”
“Lev?”
Kalinov held up his hand, examining it himself for the first time.
The dislocated fingers and torn webbing were apparent, both to him and to Stelmakh.
Numerous electrical items had felt the shock and smoke wafted gently through the interior. Even the fume extractor added more smoke than it removed as its out-of-line motor protested.
“Onufriy?”
The smoke caught in Stelmakh’s throat and he spluttered his words.
“Onu… friy?”
‘The intercom must be out.’
Stelmakh leant forward and shouted into the front of the tank.
“Onufriy! Stepanov, you fucking goat shagger!”
After deflecting downwards, the shell had penetrated the driver’s hatch and stuck fast, with six inches protruding into the space below.
The gap between the hatch and Stepanov’s head was two inches.
Stelmakh knew his tank was crippled and ordered his crew to evacuate.
Leaning forward, he pushed himself forward to get as close to his driver as he could.
It was dark, all the lights having shorted out.
Grabbing the torch, he flicked the switch and immediately vomited.
The 88mm shell protruded through the hatch and into Stepanov’s head.
He had been killed instantly.
Stelmakh wiped his mouth and slipped out of the turret down to the front of the tank, knowing he was exposing himself, but not prepared to abandon a man who he considered a friend as well as a comrade.
The hatch would not shift and he knew he would not yet be able to recover the dead man.
Returning to the tank. Stelmakh resolved to man the machine-gun until such times as efforts could successfully be made to extract the corpse and get the tank back in the fight.
“We didn’t kill the bastard.”
Köster could only agree with Jarome’s statement.
“No room for us to manoeuvre worth the name. The Oberführer told us to stick here, so here we stick.”
“Bastard’ll be waiting for us if we poke our snout back round.”
Dripping with sarcasm, Meier’s voice entered the conversation.
“Well thank you, Ober-fucking-Gruppen-fucking-führer-Jarome, our resident tactical genius.”
“That’ll do, kameraden.”
Köster smiled in spite of himself.
“We’ll try the next street up. See if we can flank them. If that’s alright with you, Herr Feldmarschal Meier.”
The crew laughed in response to the goad, which Meier seized upon instantly.
“I approve of your plan, Sturmscharführer. You’ll make a decent tank commander yet.”
“Arschloch! Now, left turn… that’s the arm with your watch on… up to the next junction.”
The Tiger moved off, but was waved down by a hurrying senior NCO.
Köster stuck his head out of the turret.
“What gives, Hässelbach?”
He scaled the front of the tank and spoke in gasps, having run to find the Tiger commander.
“We need your tank… quickly… the bastards’ve broken through… northeast corner… the Oberführer’s leading our last reserves… I’ll direct you… but we must hurry!”
“Hang on tight then. Driver, forward!”
“Yes! Yes! We have the shits now!”
Zilinski punched his fist into his hand as his forces surged forward noticeably.
The pressure had mounted and Zilinski seized the opportunity and sent in the last of his reserve, the full company of rifleman and four tanks enough to overcome the struggling legionnaires and sunder the line.
The key had been the huge anti-tank gun that dominated the vital approach, although the Panthers that had protected its flanks were now all destroyed and it would have inevitably followed them into hades as his infantry approached it from the flanks.
One of the surviving T34m46/100s had finally put a shell right on target, and the attackers had been rewarded with the vision of the gun and its crew cartwheeling in all directions and coming apart before their eyes.
Shouting at anyone in range, Zilinski was overcome with joy and rage in equal measure.
Joy because they had finally broken the SS bastards, and rage because of the cost of it all.
“Inform Comrade General Deniken that we’ve broken the defence.”
“Yes, Comrade Polkovnik.”
The radio sparked into action, relaying the good news, news that spread across the Soviet units.
They had been discussing the enemy prisoners before Zilinski’s headquarters had come on the radio to announce impending victory.
Deniken greeted the report with his now usual bad-humour.
“And about fucking time too. He’s used up half my fucking division and he celebrates like it’s fucking May Day in Moscow!”
He accepted the tea that was thrust into his hand and turned back, mug in one hand, binoculars in the other, seeking out the problem to his front.
“So where did the bastards go?”
Ivan Lisov, the 1st GMRD’s 2IC, had no answers.
Sometime beforehand, a small mixed group of enemy vehicles had come into view and an exchange of shots had taken place, one that left a Legion halftrack knocked out on the Floriańska.
The enemy group had dropped back out of sight and nothing more had been seen of them since.
A few mortar shells had been sent in their general direction, but went unrewarded by any evidence of secondary explosions.
Shortly after the encounter, a small detachment had been sent out to reconnoitre, but had not yet reported any contact.
“It could still be their main force, Comrade Mayor General.”
“True, Lisov… very true… but there’s heavy contact at Skrzypaczowice. They wouldn’t be so stupid as to try and break out both ways… and Route 79 makes more sense… distance… and the presence of the relieving force.”
Lisov finished his own tea and sought a refill before airing his thoughts.
“Unless Skrzypaczowice is a diversion… and they’re coming this way with their full force, Comrade Mayor General?”
“Why? Why would they do that? It’s a longer, more difficult route… and they have to know that we’re all over Sulisɫawice by now surely?”
They lapsed into silence, considering the situation, racking their brains for more information.
Deniken had a moment of clarity.
“That’s why they’re coming this way.”
“What?”
“Because of Sulisɫawice… that’s why they’re coming this way, Lisov.”
Deniken lit a cigarette before explaining.
“Because it’s the least likely thing to do… because Sulisɫawice is important to them… it’s a rescue mission as much as an escape from our trap!”
“Rescue what? Rescue who? Sulisɫawice is ours all but a few bricks.”
The radio sprang into life before Deniken could say another word, and the message immediately showed him to be correct.
“The bastards’ve caught us with our cocks out! “
Deniken pulled the map closer.
“They’ve cut through the tracks… Beszyce… the bastards… bastards…right… move our reserve to here… form a line and make sure they stop the swine right there.”
He drew a pencil line across the road to the east of Skwirzowa, from the heights, south to a modest rise adjacent to the Floriańska.
“Stop them there, Lunin.”
“Yes, Comrade Mayor General…” Lunin looked over at the forlorn group of French soldiers, presided over by a dusty and bloody senior officer, “…and them… have you decided?”
Deniken looked across and read the hate in Emmercy’s eyes.