He had to repeat the message before Ayres acknowledged.
“Healthy-two-six, you gotta push ahead a bit quicker. My boys’ll keep up, but you gotta get tighter, Healthy.”
“Roger, Tombstone.”
Within seconds, the Shermans had all accelerated and the accompanying infantry groups had raised themselves from jog to run to stay with their mobile shields.
One of the supporting halftracks, easily recognisable as Micco’s, fired off every weapon aboard as concealed Soviets soldiers rose from cover to engage the tanks at close quarters.
“Shit! They’ve got tank hunters in the hedges!”
‘FUBAR!’
Towers already had the radio in his hand.
“All Tombstone and Healthy call signs. Be aware, enemy infantry concealed in the hedges, Tombstone-four-six over.”
Even as Towers formulated the second part of his message, he noted his doughs rushing past the lead tank, putting in an assault on an unseen group of Russians.
Other groups pushed forward, moving ahead of the tanks, some charging into unoccupied clumps of hedge and trees, others assaulting a position that suddenly erupted violently.
One Sherman was smoking badly, a panzerschreck in Russian hands having struck it fatally.
The report that Starshina Kon and his vehicle had reached Dahlem did nothing to calm Artem’yev’s rising foreboding.
“Where are my rockets, Comrade Bailianov?”
“We can’t get through, Comrade Polkovnik.”
Artem’yev gripped the binoculars tightly, working off a little tension in the doing.
“There are reports of heavy air activity across our rear, Sir. Maybe…”
“I don’t need maybes, I need my rockets, and I need them now, before they get closer,” emphasising his point, Artem’yev waved one hand across the battlefield to his front, “The enemy’s bunched. I need them now, Comrade Major!”
“I’ve sent a vehicle back, Comrade Polkovnik, but I fear…”
Two shells bracketed the headquarters position, shaking men and equipment, but causing no real damage, except to strained nerves.
“Boris Ivanovitch… get me my rockets.”
Turning away, the Soviet commander brought the glasses back up to his eyes and focussed on a small bend in the southern track.
Behind Artem’yev’s line, the Katyushas had received a beating.
One unit had been detected by radar and received a thorough going over from 8” artillery, taking it out of the fight for some time to come.
Another had been discovered by returning ground attack aircraft, most of which still possessed enough munitions to make a complete mess of the ammunition and headquarters vehicles.
Only one battalion remained fully functional, but it was presently in transit to an alternative position, the commander using the excuse of the artillery and air strikes to move his unit closer to Moscow, or at least that was how the subsequent courts-martial would probably interpret the withdrawal.
There would be no further rocket support for Artem’yev’s force.
A squad of US Infantry rushed forward to secure the hedges around the bend that was the subject of ARtem’yev’s attention, and found no resistance, although fire from Soviet forces nearer Dahlem wounded the young 2nd Lieutenant leading the force.
The second in command waved the supporting tank forward, and organised the eveacuation of his former leader.
Artem’yev had left the firing of the charge to one of his platoon commanders, and the man chose the perfect moment to order detonation.
An electrical pulse, sent down a thin wire, initiated a three hundred kilogramme explosive charge that had been dug into one of the small grassy banks and then concealed with snow.
Some of his soldiers, assigned to help the engineers who laid the charge, had packed gravel and stone around the bomb, despite the engineers’ assurances that it would not be of any advantage, as three hundred kilos of explosives would be enough to clear the area by itself.
The engineers had left for another assignment, but their legacy was impressive.
The explosion was tremendous, and those soldiers that had cleared the hedges to the south of the bend were swatted away in an instant.
The Sherman tank was eight metres from the blast.
Towers had his binoculars focussed on the spot, and his eyes baulked at the brightness of the light.
None the less, as he jerked his head away, part of his brain detected the sight of many tons of tank propelled sideways at high-speed.
From his position, Artem’yev had anticipated the explosion, so was not affected as Towers was.
He observed, seemingly in slow motion, as the thirty-three ton lump of metal wiped through half a dozen men on the north side of the bend, completing the suffering of the supporting infantry group.
Fascinated, Artem’yev observed the tank rolling some distance, sending track links and externally stowed equipment flying in all directions, until coming to rest on its naked wheels.
The crew had died horribly, churned like butter in their steel coffin.
Towers hammered his fist on the halftrack, knowing he had just lost a lot of men.
Artem’yev hammered his fist on the sandbags, knowing he had just struck a huge blow.
The former grabbed the radio, and organised his reserves forward to cover the hole, whilst the latter listened angrily to the report on the fate of the Katyusha support.
On the northern track, advancing GI’s and tanks paid more respect to the ground over which they advanced, seeking out detonation wires, and looking for signs engineer activity.
A young soldier from Oklahoma saw something that scared him, and used his bayonet to cut through a wire three seconds before a Soviet Leytenant ordered the second charge’s detonation.
Anti-tank guns engaged the northern force again but were quickly silenced by a combination of direct tank fire and mortars from the Heavy Weapons, brought to bear by Towers’ direct command.
“Tombstone-four-six, Healthy-two-six, Route two looks open all the way, suggest plan three, over.”
Ayres, leaving the engagement of the AT guns to his gunner, had searched the track and ground ahead, seeing nothing but an invitation to move forward at speed.
Plan Three was a joint surge by the tracks and tanks on one axis, and Towers went with it immediately.
Artem’yev saw the movement, and understood the danger.
“Blyad! The other charge is a dud. The Amerikanski are attacking there, on our right, surging with their tanks and halftracks. Tell Kon to engage the right flank, now! Now!”
Bailianov gave the order, and the radio operator sent Starshina Kon his instructions.
Starshina Kon, twice Hero of the Soviet Union, was a very experienced soldier. Once a Colonel of Artillery, Stalin’s purges had brought him to the very bottom of his existence, before fate took a hand and he was freed, once more to became a soldier, although he always declined to become an officer when promotions were offered.
Once bitten, twice shy.
With a reputation second to none, he was transferred into the Army Tank Prototype Assessment Unit, in order to bring his expertise to bear in ensuring that Red Army’s new vehicles would be the best that they could be.
The ATPAU had sent one group to the west, to serve within the Red Banner forces.
Part of the group was at Dahlem.
One tank, one tank crew, one maintenance section, and a group of civilian engineers and designers, the latter very keen to see their hard work in action on the field of battle.
Kon had brought the tank in question to the field, and it was Artem’yev’s ace in the hole.
“Fucking hell! Something’s got Hettie!”
Hettie, an M4A3E8 Sherman, was already roaring away like a cooker, her crew incinerated in an instant.