Moreno’s Sherman closed the gap.
“Calmly does it, Oleg. You can do this. Fire when you’re ready.”
Every essence of Kon’s being wanted to shout at the man and reverse his tank away, but his training told him otherwise, and he calmly encouraged the gunner to do his job.
The 100mm recoiled as another shell was sent on its way, striking the very top of the Sherman’s mantlet before travelling a few feet further, removing the .50cal at the pintel mount.
The enemy shells continued to miss as the Sherman bounced around but, by way of return, the distance was closing, and the Sherman was nearly in the relative safety of the same small copse that had hidden Kon’s tank.
Except for one small difference.
“C’mon! C’mon! Pedal to the metal, Marty! C’mon!”
No sooner had Moreno shouted the encouragement than the tank slewed, one track with firm grip, the other losing it in a slushy, muddy hole that deprived the tank of traction
The tank slowed considerably, and continued to lose forward momentum as the left track sought purchase on something about as resistant as water.
Perversely, the sudden arrest of their forward movement spared them, and the 100mm shell streaked past without contact.
Although it came at the cost of being an easier target, the Sherman was now a better gun platform and Smith put the sight on the enemy tank. Part of him acknowledged the unspoken suggestion that it was not one he’d seen before, whilst the other part required silence as it concentrated on killing it, whatever it was.
An HVAP flew from one tank to the other in less than a second, with spectacular results.
The T-54 had just started to reverse away, relocating to yet another position, when the 76mm shell struck its front left bogie, stripping it, and the track it held, from the tank.
Inexorably, the shell moved on, removing idlers and lodging in the rear drive, jamming it solid.
The 100mm had fired virtually at the same moment and the shell struck the centre of the glacis plate of the Easy Eight, deflecting against the hull side, through the hull gunner before exiting into the floor area, and wreaking unknown damage under the revolving turret floor.
The smell of tortured metal, blood and smoke overrode their every sense and the hatches quickly flew open, propelled by desperate men.
Moreno grabbed his gunner.
“The fucker’s still alive, Smitty. Let’s give her one more now. One more, mano.”
Smith was scared out of his wits, but responded automatically to the voice of his commander, dropping back down into his seat. The loader was long gone, so Moreno pushed home another HVAP.
“On.”
“Fire!”
Nothing happened.
“Shit! Misfire!”
Smitty started the procedure automatically.
Firing the gun a further three times, one for luck, Smith gave the order to his loader and the breech was opened. With the utmost of care, Moreno extracted the shell and nestled it carefully in his arms.
It was still there when a 100mm shell punched through the hull front and exploded against the rear of the crew compartment, roughly one and a half foot from Moreno.
Two explosions combined.
“Nice shooting, Oleg. He blew up rather nicely.”
“When the fucking thing works, this is a great gun.”
That was true, and Kon had found himself wishing he had been able to take it into battle against the German Panzers at Kursk, during Bagration, or at the Seelow Heights.
Another Sherman was filling his sight.
“Target front, four degrees left.”
“On!”
“Fire!”
The tank caught fire and the crew bailed out.
Moreno’s driver, witness to the destruction of his tank and his friends, dashed away and threw himself into a depression in the ground.
From there, he stood witness to the destruction of yet another of Moreno’s force.
He turned when the sound of heavy breathing reached him, expecting to find a fellow tanker seeking refuge.
The Siberian Kandra ripped into his chest, and he fell bleeding into the snow.
The other Soviet soldier crawled past his gasping comrade, avoided the dying American, and slipped up to the edge of the hole. He calmly flipped up the sights of the last but one Panzerfaust his company possessed, and waited for his moment.
“Mohawk-six, Stonewall-one, over.”
Hardegen had heard some of what had gone on, and feared the worst. It fell to the commander of one of the 808th’s Jacksons to fill him in on the gory details.
Master Sergeant Christensen told the story without emotion, and in as few words as possible.
He was interrupted by the arrival of a large caliber shell.
The 100mm transited the turret from front left, brushing the breech without causing damage before striking the corner of the open turret and down through the back of the turret, carrying on to clip the rear body and burying itself in the snow a few yards from the Jackson.
No one was so much as scratched by the transit of the large shell.
“Motherfucker! Find the bastard, find him now!”
That proved a lot easier than expected, as the T-54 was again producing smoke, thick oily smoke that announced its position to the world.
“Crew, bale out!”
Kolesnikov looked at his commander.
“I can try mending it. He’s still alive, Comrade!”
“As are we, Oleg, but not for long if we don’t get out. The gun’s fucked so that’s that. Now, bale out!”
He went, leaving Kon alone.
Picking out his notebook, he quickly studied the list.
Leaning forward, he grabbed the technical manual and inserted flares in it and its accompanying additional notes. He placed a shell in the breech and left it half out. A few more shells were added to the floor.
He opened a small fuel cock and fuel oil began to flow into the fighting compartment.
An enemy shell struck his tank, rocking it hard and dislodging the shell in the breech.
Kon lunged forward, and stopped the casing from dropping to the floor.
Quickly he re-inserted it and performed the final act.
He opened a small box in his position and pressed two buttons simultaneously.
Sticking his head out to check the battle situation, he was nearly decapitated by a 90mm shell screaming past the turret. As it was, the heat hurt his eyes, and he swore he could smell singed hair.
The Jackson had missed, and so he lunged for safety as the demolition charge burned away.
The results were spectacular for both the T-54, and the remaining portions of the bunker position it was in.
Christensen was claiming the kill when a panzerfaust struck the glacis of his tank, wounding both men in the hull.
He grabbed the ‘grease gun’ and threw himself off the SP, intent on hosing down the bastard who had hit his tank.
Firing as he ran, his mind barely registered the shape of another panzerfaust emerging from the position.
He snatched for a grenade before realizing that he had none, his eyes widening as the enemy anti-tank soldier took careful aim.
Screaming like a banshee, he hurled the empty grease gun at the enemy soldier, and redoubled his efforts to close the man down before he fired.
He failed.
“Job tvoyu mat… but that was fucking disgusting!”
Kon couldn’t agree more.
Both he and Morozov had been looking straight at the small battlefield cameo, unable to interfere, but none the less concentrating intently on who would win the small race for life or death.
Neither had expected to watch the enemy soldier transformed into a fog of liquid and small pieces by the direct strike of a panzerfaust warhead on his chest.
The firer seemed little better off, lying in the snow on the edge of his position, face down and motionless. The soldier who had been behind him seemed in a state of shock, the whole area round the vaporised American soldier transformed into one giant flower head comprising various shades of red.