In the main, the 85mm shells proved ineffective against the Centurions.
A number of tanks were hit but, apart from soiled underwear, little damage was done.
The 100mm shells were a different matter.
One Guards troop commander was still screaming his joy at registering a fourth kill in as many minutes when a 100mm solid shot smashed through the hull of his tank, creating a whirlwind of bone and gristle, and leaving him suddenly alone.
Unable to recognise anything human about the things around him, the young subaltern screamed in horror and pushed himself up out of the cupola, desperate to escape the horrors of the tank’s interior.
He quickly added to them, when his headless corpse flopped onto the turret deck, his head removed by a passing shell.
As the Soviet attack flowed along the south bank of the Elde River, the Coldstream infantry started to give ground, firing as they went, leapfrogging backwards from positon to position.
Encouraged by Nazarbayev, the soldiers of the 9th took them under fire and pinning a number in place as best they could, which permitted their attacking comrades to get closer and closer.
Perhaps understandably, some excitable soul in the lead Soviet assault unit mistakenly took Nazarbayev’s men under fire, which forced them to take cover more effectively than any attempts by the British Guardsmen to their front.
The lead elements of the 2nd Battalion started to dismount and move into foot assault on the small knots of resistance they encountered.
Although Sarkashian’s guardsmen had suffered many deprivations during the long winter and the supply shortages, they were decidedly fitter than most frontline Soviet soldiers, and their assaults swiftly overwhelmed the Coldstreams, whose choices were clear; surrender or die, and the British Guards were not minded to surrender.
‘B’ Squadron’s tanks stood and died, or reversed, often with the same result, as, not for the first time, numerical superiority started to overcome technology.
Godfrey Pike, his radio now repaired, did all he could to try to reorganise his battered force, all the time ensuring that Lieutenant Colonel Keith understood the perilous position his command was in.
‘A’ Squadron was also engaged, but was hampered by its inability to manoeuvre. Using speed alone, Soviet tank units closed down the range between vehicles, and both British tank squadrons found themselves fighting at ever reducing range, as 43rd Guards Tank Regiment charged forward, in spite of its own grievous losses.
British artillery opened up and managed to reduce the odds even further, but the Soviet’s understood that getting in close was of benefit in more than one way, and the British artillery would inevitably cease to prevent friendly casualties.
A number of passes were made by Allied ground attack aircraft, but only two attacked, the rest unable to make sure who was who, and fairly chose not to add their ordnance to the maelstrom below.
To the south, a large force of Soviets slipped past the British positions, moving through the largely intact Sonnenberg Wald, and closing on Spornitz virtually unopposed.
The southern force commander, Sarkashian himself, ordered the advance out of the Sonnenberg Wald, and his tanks crossed the almost dry Splettbach. Part he sent barrelling straight at Spornitz, to run parallel with the Oberbach and Mühlenbach. Part he sent further westward, with orders to circumvent Spornitz, pass to the east of Dutschow, and occupy the junction of Routes 65 and 59.
“But my orders say Spornitz, Sarnt-Major.”
“Your orders are out of bloody date, Sir. Listen to that…”
Charles pointed in the direction of whatever hell was being stirred up to their west.
“I take your point, Sarnt-Major, really I do, but… I say…”
With exasperation rather than respect, CSM Charles interrupted the transport officer’s words with a raised hand.
“Sir. Will you help us dismount?”
“Not here, Sarnt-Maj…
Charles spun his finger in a simple sign, and the Centurion’s engine burst into life.
The transport officer went nearly blue with the indignity of it all.
“No! That won’t do… won’t do at all! Stop that!”
Charles, his back towards the elderly man, waved his hand once more and Lady Godiva III dropped into gear and drove backwards off the trailer.
“My God, man! I’ll have you arrested! I mean to say… what the blazes?”
One of the Diamond Whites came apart in a violent explosion.
The tank crews present recognised the crack that had preceded the arrival of a high-explosive shell.
‘Enemy tanks!’
Other transporters were slowly coming to a halt behind the lead vehicles that had, until a few moments ago, held Charles’ own tank.
The tanks of ‘C’ Squadron has been caught on their transports, and were at great disadvantage.
“Captain! That’s why your orders are out of sodding date! We need the tanks off the bloody trailers… NOW!”
He shouted at the engineer officer.
“Lieutenant Ansell! Can you keep the bastards off us long enough to get the tanks off? As best you can!”
“Will do. Good luck!”
Ansell shouted at his men, pointing towards the ruins of Dutschow.
The men, engineers from 14th Field Squadron RE who had travelled up in company with ‘C’ Squadron, needed no second invitation and charged towards the hard cover offered by the rubblised remains of Dutschow.
Leaving the shocked transport captain to work things out, CSM Charles climbed aboard his tank, intent on buying some time for the rest of his squadron to unload.
“Up that rise to the left… in behind that old building… fucking sharpish, man!”
The Centurion’s Meteor engine purred as the tracks gripped the grass and pulled the fifty-two ton tank up the small incline.
The destroyed building proved to be a superb firing point, one from which the Soviet attacking force was revealed in all its glory.
“Fucking hell! The whole of fucking Uncle Joe’s three-ring circus is out there!”
Patterson was confronted with the original ‘target-rich’ environment.
Charles was momentarily stunned into silence, a silence broken by Wild’s laconic observation.
“Are you lot planning to use that fucking gun or what?”
The side of a T-54 proved an irresistible target.
“Target tank, right two, moving right to left, range, thirteen hundred…”
The tank commander’s instructions fell away as Charles knew his sabot round was no good at that distance.
Although he knew the answer, he had to check.
“What you got up the spout, Pats?”
“APC.”
“Good enough. You got ’im?”
“Nope. He’s stopped behind cover, Sarnt-Major.”
“Roger… target tank… right two… range twelve-fifty.”
“On… he’s a command tank…”
“FIRE!”
The 20-pdr swept back in its mount and the APCBC shell sped down range.
“Fuck it!”
“Again!”
Charles moved his cupola to examine the rest of the battlefield, and saw the deploying tanks and infantry splitting, some on the original axis, others moving towards the debussing members of his squadron.
“Kill him quick, Pats.”
Again, the big gun spat a solid shot at the enemy force.
“Got the bastard!”
One of the T34m45s ground to a halt, its engine smoking as flames licked around the compartment.
Charles called the new target.