Braun looked at the British tanker and back at the Russians.
“It’s done, Now, we attack, and you… you put your bridge in the right place. Let’s move it, Herr… err… Lieutenant.”
Lieutenant Johnson wanted to say more, understanding that he had the rank, but didn’t say another word, understanding that he possessed no authority in the eyes of these men.
He re-entered his tank, mind in turmoil, his sensibilities and morals under assault before a shot had been fired.
“Sir?”
Johnson looked at his gunner, his face white.
“You ok, Sir?”
The laugh that came from Johnson’s mouth was bordering on hysterical.
“No, Godfrey, I’m bloody well not, ok. See what they’ve done? Bloody Nazis.”
Corporal Godfrey and the rest of the crew had noted the prisoner’s plight whilst Johnson was out of the tank.
“Who could do such a thing, Godfrey? It’s awful and, what’s more, it’s against the Convention.”
“Never mind, Sir.”
Johnson looked at his gunner as if he was a beast from another world, which in many respects he was, for Godfrey had seen combat enough for two men.
“Never mind? Never mind? What sort of bloody swine would do that?”
He pointed through the wall of the turret at the rough position of the German tanks.
Godfrey looked at him.
“We did it on the Scheldt at Westkapelle."
Johnson was horrified.
"What?"
"I said that we did it on the Scheldt… Sir. The bastards had killed Windy Miller… and done in Don Humphries too, all in the space of two hours. Surrendering as a fucking distraction, whilst one of their mates snuck round with a ‘faust and popped his tank in the jacksy.”
The young officer had could not speak, his mouth hung open as his concept of the British fighting an honourable war was stripped away with a few words.
“We had no problem with it… and it stopped the bastards from firing for sure, all except one, who musta been a fanatic. He hit our Winnie but didn’t penetrate.”
The chuckle that came next wasn’t forced in any way.
“Made a right bloody mess of his chums though.”
“But… but… it’s just not on… it’s…”
“What? Not fucking cricket? Not according to the rules of war eh? … or the fucking convention eh?”
Johnson recoiled again, as the sneer of contempt from Godfrey undermined yet another of his prized understandings of the way war was conducted. The assault on his sensibilities and understanding of the niceties of the rank structure was only just beginning.
“Lieutenant, for crying out loud, pull yourself together! You ain’t playing rugger or cricket at fucking Eton now. Them over the other side… they ain’t cads or boundahs… they’re bastards… bastards who’ll kill you without a moment’s thought or hesitation. This is war, and you can’t fight war with rules. There’s no fucking umpires to call no ball, no referee to whistle up for a foul, offside, or forward pass. Kill… or be fucking killed… that’s what it’s about, and if all those red bastards die in saving one of our boys, I’ll not shed fucking tears for ’em.”
The radio crackled with the order to advance, breaking the tension, and, despite the lack of orders from a shocked Johnson, the Churchill pushed forward, flanked by the AVRE’s.
The Churchill was slow, very slow, something that Braun had not factored into his timing.
However, the farmer’s bridge was still there, and his lead armour was close to it, the Panzer IV’s placed on the right flank, away from whatever the defenders of Brumath could hurl at them.
A contact report crackled in his ear and he immediately acknowledged it, checking his episcopes.
Dissatisfied with the vision, he pushed himself upwards and raised his eyes above the edge of the cupola.
“Schiesse! Tank at eleven…hull down behind the small rise…see it?”
Braun’s gunner mumbled a positive response.
“On.”
“FIRE!”
The 75mm belched its shell and Braun stayed in place to watch the results.
A mass of earth and bushes suddenly rose up in his field of vision.
‘Short, dammit!’
“Up seventy-five.”
“Target tank. On.”
“FIRE!”
Another miss, but it was almost directly on target.
Something in his brain was trying to get Braun’s attention, but he was blocking it as he fought his tank.
“Target tank. On!”
“FIRE!”
A flurry of sparks indicated a hit but the white streak soaring high into the sky told them that it had not penetrated.
The nagging continued and broke through.
‘They’re not firing at us!’
Switching to the command net, Braun gave his orders.
“All stations Dora, all stations Dora, press in now, and do it quickly. They’re not firing at us. Repeat, press in close now.”
Switching to Durand’s channel, he requested that the RDM stayed tight to his tanks.
The Churchill VII bridge layer was shifting as fast as she could, but it was still pitifully slow. On a good day, and with a decent tail wind, the bridge layer could do fifteen miles per hour on a road, compared with the Panther’s noteworthy thirty. Across country, the Panther was even more superior.
This meant that Braun’s tanks were at the small river before Johnson brought the bridging tank up.
“Dora Zero One to Dora. Find cover and continue to engage. Out.”
Still not a single shot had been aimed at the Panthers, although Durand’s halftracks had experienced the spectacular destruction of one vehicle, struck by something very large and unforgiving.
Braun’s Panther slewed sideways into a small depression, the turret half masked by a hedgerow.
“No target.”
The gunner was the absolute master of the deadpan unflustered voice, something that greatly endeared him to Braun.
He found the man another one and it was probably whatever had killed the RDM’s halftrack.
“Two hundred metres behind the same hillock we just shot at. See the building there. Wall to the right.”
The turret shifted, and the gunner found his prey.
“You sneaky bastard. Target, gun. On.”
“Fire. Load HE.”
The Panther fired a solid shot at what both Braun and the gunner had identified as a large field gun. HE would have been a better shell with which to kill the 152mm artillery piece, but it wasn’t needed. The AP shell struck the front of the right side trunnion and sent the barrel whirling from its mount. The heavy lump of metal acted like a scythe through corn when it mowed through the crew tending it. The barrel smashed through a small outbuilding, and finished its journey in the ammo lorry that had been hiding behind the flimsy structure, with spectacular results, also bringing about the loss of the Soviet artillery battery’s radio links.
The diversionary attack had done its job, up to a point, but the delay getting over the Zorn was a huge problem, and no amount of screaming down the radio could make the Churchill move faster.
The light was failing, the snow had started again in earnest, and everything seemed to be going wrong.
Braun and Durand had their forces exposed, although part of the RDM had angled towards the bridge, ready to follow the Panzer IV’s that now broached the crossing point.
A huge flash preceded the bang, and many eyes watched as the farmer’s bridge and lead Panzer went skywards.
‘Fuck it!’
“Dora Zero One to Dora. Take cover. The panzer brücke will be here soon, and then we can cross. Hang on, Kameraden.”