The Sexton barrage was falling away for no other reason than the total exhaustion of the crews, but they persevered and, in their superhuman efforts, aided in the destruction of the survivors of Ambrose Force. The evening was illuminated by the HE bursts and Kozlov’s force, more specifically, the Artillery Officer attached to the assault force, could easily see the surviving vehicles of the Lancers and their infantry support falling back.
The reduced Soviet artillery and mortar units brought a concentrated fire down, killing many men and knocking out much of the surviving equipment.
The Headquarters had been overrun before the Folgore relief company could arrive.
Pappalardo tried to ease his body slightly, but only succeeded in increasing the pain over his tolerance threshold.
One grenade had virtually taken his left arm off at the elbow, the bloodied limb occasionally tweaked as the stump moved and the remaining sinew moved with it, much like a worm on a fishing line.
A piece of stone had been thrown up and that was proudly protruding from his chin, embedded in the flesh and bone.
The blast had thrown him some distance and he had landed on a typewriter with such force that it ruptured his liver and broke three ribs. He had bounced and come to rest in a perfect sitting position, propped by a stand of four ammo boxes.
Strangely, he had not lost consciousness, although he wished he had. He watched on as his men, both British and Italian, were all killed or wounded around him.
His aide, the Major, took a bullet in the throat and dropped to the earth clutching the fatal wound. He was dispatched with a savage kick to the same area by a Soviet soldier young enough to be the Major’s son.
The British Artillery officer was hammered to the ground and beaten mercilessly. Pappalardo could only watch the man suffer as his face and upper body swelled up and blood leaked from a dozen wounds.
One of the blows had exposed part of the man’s brain, obviously causing serious damage.
For the few minutes the Englishman clung to life, his cries that of an infant scared by a shadow and needing his mother.
Pappalardo wished him quickly dead.
One of the headquarters NCO’s, a corporal, had obviously killed at least one of the attackers and he was given special treatment, a sharpened spade ending his life, its recovery from his skull taking the strength of two men and causing more ignominy to the corpse.
The last British Challenger had success, its 17pdr gun knocked out two T-34’s in short order.
The Soviet infantry swept over it quickly. Two grenades down the open hatch were followed by a full magazine from a PPSh, filling the interior with a host of angry insects, many of which found homes in already dead flesh.
The relief company, caught on the move, suffered badly at first, but found a position to defend and screamed for help. Artillery would have helped but the sole link with the Sextons was mewling his last seconds away, his radio equipment shattered, along with his skull.
Arnoldstein was lost and its defenders desperately scrabbled for the safety offered by the Italian border.
Kozlov again switched the focus of his assault, directing a tank company of the 62nd, with squads of his own infantry hanging on for dear life, down a side route with orders to reach the river.
To the north, the Soviet main force, hampered by a lack of bridging equipment, had halted at the river. Encouraged by their seniors, units resorted to swimming across the river, leaving heavy weapons and much of their kit behind them.
It was a gamble, but it paid off, as the Red Army soldiers maintained the pressure on the retreating units.
They herded Ambrose force, driving them onto the waiting tanks of the 62nd Tank Brigade and soldiers of the 28th Rifle Regiment.
A single Churchill VII rattled southwards, intent on escape at all costs and without regard for its comrades.
A full-blown collision with a Folgore motorcyclist caused consternation amongst the struggling soldiers, the 741cc Bianchi disappearing under the offside track, along with the leg of the unfortunate rider.
However, the Churchill did not stop, rattling at its top speed down the Unterthörl on its way to safety.
Seven tank shells struck the vehicle within half a second of each other, those that hit the front were repulsed by 152mm of armour, those that targeted the side sliced through weaker metal to explode inside the tank.
The Sergeant in the cupola was expelled by the force of the internal explosion, his burning body describing some kind of perverse rainbow in the sky as it fell to ground next to the railway line.
Furious Italian infantrymen, until that moment chasing the tank, fell in a storm of bullets as the Soviet blocking force announced its presence.
Demoralised, Ambrose Force tried to gather itself for an attack, but the attempt to break through was half-hearted and surrender became more of the norm as hopelessness and a wish to survive replaced duty and the mirage of safety across the border.
Some die-hards made alternative decisions, often those who had already had experience of life in as a prisoner of war. Such displays of resistance were dealt with quickly and harshly as the Soviet infantry rushed forward to take prisoners and, of course, remove anything of value from their enemies.
Pappalardo was indignant.
Silently indignant, as he could do nothing, his wounds too severe and his strength long departed.
He used his eyes, as best he could, to transfer his contempt to the Soviet soldier who was ripping off his medals and rifling his pockets.
The Russian’s eyes fell upon the fine leather holster and he knocked Pappalardo’s protective arm aside to get at its contents.
Proudly brandishing a well-worn Beretta M1934, the infantryman was satisfied that he had taken all there was to take.
Pappalardo watched on in silence as his beloved Beretta disappeared into the man’s bread bag, along with his other possessions.
He tried to move, to remonstrate, to prevent, but the act brought on excruciating pain, the like of which he had never known before and he finally dropped into merciful unconsciousness.
Not for the first time that day, Haines was livid.
‘Biffo’s bus’ had been drawn up in a concealed position so that he could dismount and make a plan.
His binoculars betrayed the full extent of the tragedy of Ambrose Force. The white sub-light of the snow was aided by a modest moon, and both were bolstered by buildings and vehicles burning steadily.
What struck Haines most was the silence that had now descended, only broken by the occasional shot or explosion of a vehicle surrendering to the flames.
There was nothing he could do but look after himself and the few men that had gravitated towards one of the few running Allied tanks.
Whilst he was deciding on how to proceed, the Sherman made its own decision and broke down
A moment of throaty metal graunching was quickly followed by more terminal sounds as the engine seized, its life-giving oil eventually having leaked away unnoticed.
Killer emerged from the driver’s hatch and announced his verdict.
“She’s fucked, Biffo. Won’t even turn over now. Engine’s seized.”
“Great.”
Which, clearly, it wasn’t.
With some sadness, Haines cast his eye at the tank that had been their home and had seen them safely through half of the Italian campaign and the start of this latest abomination, but his eye was caught by an Italian soldier waving to his comrades.