He grimaced as one Centurion took a fatal hit, smoke and flame immediately belching from its open turret hatch.
‘Shit!’
“Driver. Move left, take the road through the village.”
Lady Godiva swung quickly and accelerated, the upgraded engine carried the fifty-two tank forward with ease.
Racing down Dorfstrasse, Charles warned Wild well in advance.
“Take the next road on the left, Laz. Don’t lose us a track now or I’ll have your guts for bloody garters.”
Charles levered himself up into the cupola and took some deep sucks on the slightly fresher air outside the confines of the turret.
The tank slowed and Lazarus Wild negotiated the turn into Querstrasse with ease.
“Laz, at the end of this road, take it right and get me to the top of the hill there, reverse side approach, stop short of the summit, ok?”
The map notation stated ‘Pferdekopf‘, whatever that meant.
The standard mumbled acknowledgement came back.
Charles stooped down and tapped Silverside on the shoulder.
“Pass me the Sten, Beefy.”
The tank’s sub-machinegun and two mags were quickly handed up.
“Tank halt.”
Laz brought Godiva to a gentle stop.
“I’m going to recce the top of it. Make sure you stay below the summit ‘til I wave you up. Commander out.”
Charles dropped to the ground, already running, knowing he had to get his tank back into action as quickly as possible.
Wild held the Centurion below the skyline as ordered, and the three of them took the time for a crafty cigarette.
Patterson risked a look out of his hatch and, off to the left, he watched the close battle in Spornitz between the T34s and some tanks from his battalion.
‘C’ Squadron had three tanks knocked out from what he could see, but the wreckage of the Soviet tanks went as far as he could see, the 17-pdr equipped Mark IIs more than holding their own against the 85mm and 100mm guns of the enemy.
He was brought back to earth in a second as a long whistle attracted his attention.
Charles was waving at Wild, encouraging him to bring the tank forward.
The idling engine took the strain and pulled lady Godiva III the last few yards to the summit.
Wild followed the hand signals, favouring the right side, and immediately saw what Charles had planned, and nosed the tank into a scrape on the top of the mound, a lovely piece of natural cover that left only the turret exposed.
Some trees completed the ensemble, making it a superb firing position.
Charles was up and in before Wild could take the engine out of gear.
“Right, Pats. Hold your fire for the mo. There’s a few of the buggers set along the main road line… not the main road… the other one behind it… range about two thousand I reckon.”
“I’m on it, Sarnt-Major.”
“HESH up?”
“Yep, Sarnt-Major.”
“None to waste, so make them all count. We’ll stay as long as possible… it’s a great position… stay ready, Laz… you fit, Pats?”
“Reckon so, Sarnt-Major… left to right seems best… suit?”
“Do it. Don’t wait for me.”
Patterson took a deep breath and concentrated on his sight, his mind working at high capacity to get things just right.
“Firing.”
The 20-pdr sent a shell across the battlefield, seeking out a T-54 that was partially concealed in a hedgerow.
The shell struck home and the process of death commenced, as layers of the internal turret armour whirled around inside the confines of the steel box, converting tender breathing flesh into something resembling the contents of a chef’s mincing machine.
The turret whirred a few inches to the right and Patterson repeated the process.
This time the process of dying was more abrupt and recognisable, as something inside the target surrendered catastrophically to the high-speed metal scabs, blasting the turret up and behind the destroyed tank.
The Centurion’s gun was already on the next target and a third HESH went downrange.
“Fuck!”
The shell struck short, making a small cut in the road, before bouncing up and over the target.
Charles was understandably nervous about any artillery fire, and made sure Wild was ready to move in an instant.
The 20-pdr spoke again.
“Oh for fuck’s sake!”
Patterson had missed for a second time, this time over the top of the enemy’s turret, an inch over, but an inch was enough.
The tree to the Centurion’s left splintered as it surrendered to a direct hit. The heavy trunk fell across the front of the British tank, adding to the concealment without inhibiting its ability to fight.
Charles chose to stay silent, not wishing to break Patterson’s concentration.
Silverside chose a different course of action.
“Get it fucking right or the next round will be loaded up your fucking jacksy, sunshine.”
Charles slapped the back of Beefy’s head, part in jest, part to relieve his own tension.
“Firing.”
The HESH went home and the enemy tank was silenced.
As was the next, again in more identifiable fashion, as smoke issued from the open hatches.
The driver escaped from his vehicle, the colour of his battledress drastically altered by the brief events inside his vehicle.
Miraculously unhurt, the man ran as fast as he could, trying to escape the images that were locked into his brain.
“Last HESH.”
Beefy’s announcement confirmed the countdown each crewman had been making.
The final HESH shell did no more than smash the right track off a T-54.
“Driver, reverse.”
Lady Godiva III moved quickly out of the scrape and onto the reverse slope, stopping out of sight, and allowing the whole crew to take a much-needed deep intake of air.
“Good effort, Pats.”
The gunner was less than enthusiastic.
“Not fucking good enough, Sarnt-Major.”
Patterson reflected on it for a second.
‘Four out of seven, plus a disabled… at two thousand… that’s pretty fucking good actually.’
“Should’ve done better.”
“Fucking right you should ‘ave.”
This time, both Charles and Patterson aimed blows at the grinning Silverside.
“Right, let’s move around to the right. Laz, take her round on this path… nice and slow.”
The Centurion rotated on the spot and moved around the side of the hill.
Charles sniffed the air and narrowed his eyes; the whole sky seemed to be changing colour and disposition in front of his eyes.
“Storm coming I reckon, lads.”
He switched his eyes back to the front and saw the enemy tank moving gingerly through the ruined buildings.
“Bloody hell! Tank halt! Gunner, target tank, left two, range three hundred, ass shot.”
Patterson found the T34 quickly, its vulnerable rear pointed towards them as it tried to manoeuvre for side shots on the British defensive line.
An APCBC shell slammed through the engine compartment, sending burning fuel across the road and into the ruined house beside the tank.
“There’s another, Pats! Left two, next to the burning lorry… behind the wall there!”
The two Soviet tanks had somehow manoeuvred themselves into excellent firing positions on the left flank of the Grenadier’s defensive line.
The second tank sent a solid shot crashing through the side of a Guards’ Centurion, smashing the engine into worthless scrap.
The crew abandoned swiftly, but took machine-gun fire and dropped out of sight.
Meanwhile, aware that there was an unknown but deadly threat to its rear, the other Soviet tank drove through the side of a wooden barn in an effort to conceal itself.
The attempt failed as another solid shot followed it into the barn and instantly turned the vehicle and building into a fireball.