The shell was out now and Powell pushed himself and the shell up through the hatch.
Seconds later, he dropped back inside, his cheeks blowing out as he finished battling with his fear.
“Good work, Killer.”
Whilst the loader had been outside, both Haines and Nellie had checked the firing mechanism and quickly came to the conclusion that the fault lay with the shell, not the gun.
“OK lads, drama over for now. Load up HVAP and be quick about it.”
The high-velocity armour-piercing shell was the best available to the Sherman crew when it came to killing other tanks.
“Target Sp to front… on!”
Nellie had decided that the big ones would go first.
“Fire!”
The Sherman rocked and another Soviet vehicle was hit.
“Over to you now, Nellie.”
Haines returned to his planning, surveying the positions taken by his Lancers and finding himself generally satisfied.
One tank seemed more forward than the others and certainly more exposed, its machine-guns hammering out in an effort to protect the retreating infantry.
A quick look through his binoculars confirmed which vehicle call sign it was.
‘Banshee.’
Switching to the squadron net, he keyed the mike.
The sudden huge fireball stopped him in his tracks, his mouth wide open, as the Sherman was literally torn apart by something huge and unforgiving.
A 152mm shell had simply demolished the vehicle.
His own tank jerked again, as Nellie replied in kind.
The target, another of the huge ISU-152s, stopped immediately and exhibited no signs of life. No hatches were opened followed, no urgent scramble for survival apparent. No fire or smoke came from it. The leviathan was knocked out, its crew not dead, but all badly wounded, and definitely out of the fight.
Soviet supporting mortar fire was being adjusted expertly and shells started to drop amongst the British infantry as they neared their second line positions.
Binoculars again pressed to his eyes, Haines swept the advancing enemy for some sign of the controllers. As the snow continued to peter out, spotting the enemy vehicle proved to be easier than he had expected.
“Nellie, see that halftrack with the antennas… two o’clock… tucked in behind that bush. HE and take it out.”
“Still got aitch-vap in, Biffo. Next shot.”
Haines let it go.
Biffo was a nickname he had acquired because of his legendary capacity to get into scraps, normally with Allied contingents, and normally managing to drag his mates into matters against their will. Despite the frequent use of his fists to settle disputes over matters of signal insignificance between parties generally too ‘oiled’ to remember what started the fight, Haines’ combat and leadership qualities secured him promotion from the ranks and eventual command of a troop in, and then leadership of, B Squadron, 16th/5th Royal Lancers.
Oliphant decided to aim the shell rather than just get rid of it.
A small enemy SP had come onto view behind the halftrack and he put his shell into the superstructure, causing the vehicle to manoeuvre erratically, whilst seeking cover behind a farm building.
Killer slotted an HE shell home and it was quickly on its way for a fatal rendezvous with the observer vehicle from the Soviet 10th Mountain Mortar Regiment.
The British infantry still lost men to the mortars but they remained unadjusted for some time, enough to ensure that the Rifle Brigade could get organised for phase two.
A Sherman disappeared in a huge fireball as another of the ISU’s made a hit.
“Cassino 6, all Cassino elements. Concentrate on the big SP’s. Take ’em out of the fight now.”
Four had already been savaged, two by Oliphant, much to the gunner’s merriment.
The Lancers focussed their main guns on the ISU’s and the heavy SP’s suffered badly, the two surviving commanders finding excellent reasons to withdraw to positions out of direct sight.
Lt Ionescu was crying and screaming.
He was the only casualty in the Hetzer, the small SP that Haines’ tank had put a shell into a few minutes beforehand.
With the damaged vehicle now safely tucked away behind an old storage building, his crew were trying hard to get the wounded officer out of the vehicle and away for medical treatment as soon as possible.
Any movement they tried, and each breath he took, tortured Ionescu’s shattered body, producing extremes of pain.
One moment he had been encouraging his men to advance, the next the whole vehicle smelt of burnt metal and flesh. Lieutenant Tudor Ionescu had been ripped open, exposing both lungs and liver to the appalled gaze of his crew.
The 25pdrs of the British Sextons rocked the small SP, the pitter-patter as shrapnel struck the metal sides began to unnerve the men, as did the screams of their officer.
The senior man, a Corporal and the vehicle’s gunner, took a lump shrapnel in the back, killing him instantly.
The remaining two crew members lost their nerve and ran, leaving Ionescu in the snow to die alone.
Major Emilian was crying and screaming, his command in tatters and half his crew dead around him.
Although untouched himself, the Rumanian was covered with blood, the products of his gunner and loader, both killed by the inexorable passage of an armour-piercing shell on its way through the turret.
The radio was silent, despite him screaming orders at his men; silent for two reasons.
Firstly, there was no one left to hear his calls, the only vehicle undamaged being the Zrynyi II, its engine having given up the battle shortly after the advance through Müllnern, five kilometres to the east.
Secondly, his radio had been destroyed by the same shell that had claimed his turret crew.
Another shell struck the front of the tank and Emilian found himself sprayed with the detritus of the driver, whose body lay directly in the path of another AP shell.
Almost dreaming, Emilian slowly wiped the bits and pieces from his face, and hands, and arms, and chest, and…
Seven seconds after the last impact, Major Anton Emilian mind collapsed and he suffered a total psychological breakdown.
He shouted loudly into his microphone, cursing Hitler, Antonescu, Stalin and King Michael equally, commanding his officers to press home the attack, squealed at anything he could see for stealing his mother’s apples and, finally, screaming an order for coffee as he imagined himself in his favourite watering hole in Constanta.
His screaming turned to maniacal laughter as he noticed the severed handset. He threw it at the dead gun crew, cursing them for their silence and pushed himself up out of the turret with the flags that were on hand to replace the radio.
He made patterns with the two flags, none of which would have been recognised as proper orders by anyone, even if he had been seen.
Actually, he was seen, but not by his own side.
“Look at ’im, the stupid bugger!”
The hull machine gun fired a short burst, knocking the man off the tank turret and onto the snow below.
“Jesus Christ but he’s still going!”
Haines took time to focus on the single man who was behaving so erratically.
Clearly, some bullets had hit the man as he now only waved the one flag, his right arm dangling uncontrolled at his side.
None the less, he continued to make his signals in the direction of anyone and anything that he could spot.
“Let him be, lads. He’s had enough.”
Emilian had dropped to the ground, exhausted by his exertions, drained of energy, and weakened by his blood loss.
The flag still jerked feebly as the dying man kept up his efforts.
Sparing his enemy a final look, Haines turned back to managing his defence.