The 90mm M3 was a very powerful gun, more than capable of dealing with most tanks on the battlefield.
The high-velocity round struck the barrel of Stepanski’s Panther, gouged a two-foot long indentation in it, and then deflected onto the curved mantlet. It struck the gunner’s sight in millimetre perfect fashion, driving the quality optical device into the brain and then out the rear of the man’s skull, as the shell expended its energy burrowing into the armour.
It did not explode.
The end of the round stood proud of the inside of the tank by some three inches, finally held in place by the mantlet.
Its presence was noted and both men waited for death to come.
It still did not explode.
Both Stepanski and his loader were covered with the blood of the dead gunner, and both found themselves unable to speak, the shock disabling both men, albeit temporarily.
Stepanski recovered first.
“Schiesse!”
He spoke quickly on the intercom.
The gunner was obviously dead.
“Gun’s fucked. Klaus is dead. I’m going to take over one of the other tanks. As soon as I’m gone,” he looked at the loader, “You take command and get the tank back to the werkstatt. Alles klar?”
The replies were standard and expected.
“Good luck, Kameraden.”
Stepanski propelled himself upwards.
“Commander out!”
Stepanski’s Panther reversed back to the river ,and he yelled both encouragement and warning, neither heard, as he watched the vehicle move away, the occasional solid shot sweeping past the moving tank.
He dragged himself into cover, his damaged knee leaving a trail of blood in the snow.
Where the bullet had come from, he didn’t know. It hadn’t been meant for him, of that he was sure; just a rogue touring the battlefield, having missed its original mark.
But it still hurt like hell.
At the river, the Panther swung swiftly and the tank accelerated forward, rattling the engineer bridge as it bounded over the water.
The trouble with using the bridge, something about which they had no choice, was that a canny gunner could anticipate where a tank would be at a given moment and no skill on the part of the driver could overcome that.
The Pershing gunner, selected for the captured tank because of his capabilities, was such a gunner, and he timed his shot to perfection.
The 90mm shell struck the rear plate, right on the bottom edge, slamming straight down into the bridge, through it and into the river below.
The impact knocked the drive train offline and the tank came to a halt after a few metres.
The gunner of a battered old SU-85, selected for the post solely because he had put himself forward as a gunner, although he was normally a loader, fired his first shot in anger.
The Panther’s shell ejection hatch had been pulled shut but the strike by the 90mm had sprung it open. Not fully, in fact, only slightly, but sufficiently for a solid 85mm shot to pass millimetre perfect through the gap.
It took the loader in the head, killing him instantly, and ricocheted off the inside of the turret, smashing into the floor ammo panniers.
The resultant explosion killed the remaining members of the crew.
The surviving two POW’s, still lashed to the outside of the Panther, experienced all the horrors of being slowly burnt to death as the interior fire consumed the German tank.
Stepanski screamed in horror as his men died before his eyes.
Braun and Durand were in big trouble.
The Soviet mechanised force was perfectly placed on their flank, and looked like being strong enough to overrun them.
What had seemed like a good idea, utilising the bridge and fascines to flank the enemy defences, had turned sour on them, opening them up to a disaster, unless they could hold long enough for friends to arrive.
The main attack on Brumath had petered out in the face of stiff resistance, as well as the knowledge that the original plan had failed.
The plight of the attacking force was known to the Legion’s higher command, and the airwaves were full of urgent orders, all designed to save the day.
Alma redoubled its efforts and pressed hard from the north-west and, although still some distance away, the impending presence of the Legion unit alone caused a shift in Brumath’s defences.
Knocke, decidedly further forward than he should have been, organised and sent forward a small Kampfgruppe, mainly Camerone, partly Alma and even a few vehicles from Tannenberg, ordered to move up from the forward maintenance facility.
Aware that Uhlmann’s main tank force was some time away, Knocke committed the scratch armoured company to supporting the endangered units at Brumath.
He also committed himself.
Fighting with tanks at night was undesirable, to say the least, but on this night there was no choice.
Whilst the light from destroyed vehicles, burning vegetation, weapon flashes, and flares, provided some illumination, it was an untrustworthy light, and one that often deceived the eye.
Braun’s Panthers still clung to the north bank, hanging tight to a semi-circle of land two hundred metres either side of the crossing point.
Soviet artillery sought them out and one valuable tank had been knocked out by a direct hit.
Durand’s men had pushed in front of the Panthers, providing a screen to keep the Soviet anti-tank hunters at bay.
They were extremely effective, so much so that the Soviets had stopped trying to get men close to the tanks.
Red Army and Legion gunners exchanged shots across a surreal battlefield, the white snow-covered landscape illuminated by the yellows, reds, and oranges of battle, all set against the back drop of a night sky that had once again grown clear and starry, the driving snow now but a memory.
Even the two British AVRE Churchills were in action, braving fire from tanks they could not kill, their Petard mortars throwing large explosive charges at the enemy infantry.
A familiar and inspiring voice crackled in Braun’s earpiece and that of a number of listeners on the Camerone radio net.
“Anton One to all Anton units. Maintain your positions.” Knocke waited whilst the acknowledgements occupied the airwaves, taking the opportunity to clear his throat and rehearse the message for the ad hoc group, “Anton to Valkyrie, execute plan two, execute plan two. Anton One, out.”
There were only two plans, and a swift look at the battle situation through his binoculars had told him all he needed to know.
Plan One called for crossing the river and continuing the attack.
Plan Two was a plan to withdraw the assault force back to the relative safety of the southern bank and hold the river gainst all comers.
“Anton One to London, move up. Anton One out.”
A Churchill IV, another of the 79th Armoured’s engineering tanks, pushed on towards the river, seeking out a suitable spot to lay its bridge.
The relief force fanned out as Knocke briefed both Durand and Braun on the plan.
Unknown to Knocke and his crew, the command Panther stood out like a sore thumb.
One of the Sturmgeschutz that had been taken from the repair facility had broken down directly behind the Beobachtungspanzer Panther, catching fire as a fuel pipe spilt its contents inside the engine compartment.
The growing blaze illuminated the command tank, a distinct black shape against a fan of yellow drawing many eyes from across the river.
No sooner had the briefing finished than the command Panther shuddered as a large round hit the ground beside it.
Knocke’s tank had no main gun, the extra room providing more radio space. Excellent for control, but no good when heavy metal was being exchanged in a stand up fight. In his normal command tank, a Befehlspanzer with the standard 75mm, he could hold his own on the battlefield, but this replacement vehicle, normally used as a mobile artillery OP, had been selected solely because it was suitable for the extra room it provided, but it was not fit to go in harm’s way with a turret armament of just an MG34, mounted in a ball mount. That fact alone normally meant that Beobachtungs vehicles tended to tread lightly on the battlefield, relying on hiding, rather than confrontation.