“Mayor Steppin, a word.”
The harassed staff Major almost glided to his commander’s side, his movement effortless despite the weight of papers and orders he was carrying.
“Are these bastards still held in reserve here, Steppin?”
He tapped the small township of Dobriach on the south-east end of the Millstatter See, some fourteen kilometres from where he now stood.
“Yes, Comrade Polkovnik, but I thought you said you didn’t want them anywhere near us?”
Ryzhov pursed his lips.
“So I did, Comrade Mayor, so I did. However, the 28th needs tanks and needs them now, so we’ll seek their release to us immediately. Understood?”
The commander of the 28th rose to his feet and moved forward.
Ryzhov acknowledged his presence with a slap on the shoulder.
“Mayor Steppin will contact Army and get these tanks released to my command… and you’ll have your support, Comrade Kozlov.”
Kozlov leant forward, examined the map, and immediately understood the senior man’s reluctance.
Ryzhov put their feelings into words that lacked eloquence but did the job perfectly.
“To the Allied infantry, a tank’s a tank, so the fucking Romanian turncoats’ll have a chance to bleed along with the rest of us, eh?”
By the time that Kozlov had put forward a simple plan for employing their erstwhile allies, Steppin returned with confirmation that the 4th Romanian Armoured Group would be sent forward immediately.
Colonel Ryzhov had done all he could for the 28th Rifle Regiment, adding a short company from the 97th Engineer Sapper Battalion, a section of SPAA weapons and nearly half of the 124th Guards Artillery Regiment’s guns to the assault.
Leading the attack was the rag-tag 4th RAG, its cosmopolitan contingent of armour having made the drive from Dobriach in excellent time, although some of its older vehicles were still lagging behind.
Leading the Romanian advance were three Panzer IV’s, two model G’s and one H, the most modern vehicles available to the 4th RAG.
They were flanked by four T-34/m42’s and two Sturmgeschutz III’s.
Some way behind, a small group consisting of a Tacam R2, a Zrinyi Assault Gun, and a mechanically unsound Hetzer, struggled to close the action.
Kearney had declined to be evacuated, reasoning that Walshe would need a loader when, not if, the Russians attacked again.
He had accepted a dressing from the orderly who remained behind to tend the two men, occasionally wincing as the man worked to cover up the wound. The man was a conchie and, as such, had been ridiculed when he first joined the battalion. The contempt did not survive their first action, for the man, whose deeply held convictions prevented him from taking up arms, was no coward, and many a son of Ireland was plucked from peril by the slight effete orderly.
Walshe seemed not notice as the medic cut away at his greatcoat and battledress to get at the shoulder injury.
Satisfied with his work, Lance-Corporal Young RAMC moved off to find other employment.
As the pain of his wound mounted, Kearney started to regret his decision to stay put.
Within seconds of deciding to seek out a relief, his mind became focussed on the arrival of enemy artillery and mortar shells, undoubtedly a pre-cursor to another attack.
And something else.
‘Fuck! Tanks!’
In a rough V shape, the enemy tanks moved slowly forward, their machine guns firing short bursts into anything that looked like it could house an anti-tank team, occasionally stopping to place larger ordnance on a suspicious mound or shadow in the snow.
Behind them, more waves of Soviet infantry moved purposefully forward, buoyed by the presence of the armoured support.
Kearney was woken from his thoughts by the stammer of the Bren gun as Walshe engaged the group nearest the Drau’s southern bank.
“Nipper, have a go at that bastard there, now! He’s got his turnip up, boyo!”
Walshe mechanically looked down the line of Kearney’s good arm and saw the Panzer IV commander leaning out of the turret, engaged in animated conversation with a jogging infantry officer.
The Bren chattered three times, sending bullets into both men.
The tank officer slid inside his turret, his neck and facial wounds spraying blood over his shocked crew until there was little left to leak from his wounds and the man died.
Outside, the infantry Captain had taken five bullets in the groin and stomach, the heavy impacts throwing him against the side of the tank. Robbed of strength by his wounds, he was unable to avoid the fall onto the tank’s bogies where, mercifully, he died instantly, his head crushed between track and roller.
Earth splattered the two defenders as the hull machine gunner attempted to avenge his officer, both Irishmen automatically dropping down behind the frozen corpse.
Kearney eased his wounded arm and risked a swift look over the top.
One of the T-34s, attempting to engage the sole anti-tank gun supporting the Inniskillings, suddenly dropped into a rut disguised by a build-up of snow. The HE shell went wild and dropped well short. Unfortunately, for Kearney, it met resistance some ten yards in front of his position, its arrival coinciding with his risky attempt to see the field in front of him.
A flat pebble, the sort that water skimmers everywhere seek out for their best attempt, was forced out of the earth by the explosion and, at high speed, it struck Kearney on his right temple.
Suddenly Walshe found himself alone, and with a bloodied ‘corpse’ wrapped around his feet.
None the less, the young soldier continued to fire controlled bursts, picking off enemy soldiers with each attempt.
The artillery claimed a success; one of the T-34s took a direct hit, smashing in the front of the vehicle and flipping the turret back onto the engine compartment. It was quickly wreathed in flames and debris was thrown in all directions as rounds cooked off and the intense fire melted the snow around it.
The sole six-pounder also added to the tally, striking a Panzer IV as it manoeuvred, putting its AP shell into the rear compartment. With the engine destroyed and a growing fire, the leaderless crew decided to evacuate, leaving the corpse of their young officer to be incinerated within his last command.
Soviet mortars cut short the celebrations and spread the crew and pieces of the gun across the snow.
Kozlov had to admit that the Romanians had done well and that the extra assets that Ryzhov had allocated had made a huge difference.
‘We have them this time!’
Turning to his signals officer, he confidently gave him brief instructions.
“Inform Polkovnik Ryzhov that we are overrunning the line of resistance and that he should prepare phase seven immediately!”
Turning back to his observations, he was rewarded by the obvious signs of the British withdrawing, although the violent end of one of the Sturmgeschutz did not escape him.
Anton Emilian, Major of Tanks, commander of the Romanian armoured force, sat quietly watching as his crew struggled with the repair, the vital track having been severed by the strike of a PIAT round, just as the British infantry ran for their lives.
He carefully examined his dislocated middle finger, stroking it with his right hand, rehearsing the move that would bring it back into shape.
A group of dazed prisoners were herded past him and a small kerfuffle ensued.