“Driver, right, down the slope to that fence, then left to the road.”
Following Charles’ instructions, Lazarus Wild dropped Godiva down the slope and moved her left at the fence.
“Bring her up to that building and stop next to that smashed up Morris, Laz. I’m going to recce again.”
He grabbed the Sten again and was up and out of the tank.
No sooner had his feet hit the dirt than Charles was clambering back up the glacis plate.
“Tank action left… three of the bastards!”
He dropped in through the rotating turret, leaving the Sten on the roof out of the way.
“Three T-34s in line, Pats… going like shit off a stick… take the first one and we’ll shift position. Ready to move, Laz.”
The 20-pdr was trained on the leading edge of the slope.
Patterson waited.
No one dared breathe.
Nothing, save the electric air and the steady patter of large raindrops.
“They must’ve seen me. Back up, Laz, fast as you can, straight line, no messing!”
The Meteor engine dragged the Centurion backwards, gaining speed.
Charles stuck his head out the turret and grabbed at the Sten as he twisted to check the route behind.
“Little left-hand down, Laz… excellent… keep the pedal hard down… more left… good…”
Charles’ plan was to go the other way around the hillock and come in behind the enemy.
It was a good plan but, as is the case with good plans, they are sometimes thought of by the other side too.
“SHIT! Laz, hard right, tank action front, fire when you bear, Pats!”
The first of the T34s had come round the slope and Lady Godiva was showing it her vulnerable backside.
As she swung, the enemy tank fired.
The sound of metal striking metal was unmistakeable, and they all prepared themselves…
…but it was not their time.
As Godiva had swung, the 85mm shell had just missed the turret proper, but smashed through the crew bin on the rear of the turret, destroying much of the possessions the men had managed to acquire since they had lost their kit at Lützow.
“Straighten up, Laz!”
Charles corrected the turn and the tank continued surging backwards, aimed for a gap between two houses.
Despite being on the move, Patterson took the shot, placing his faith in the new stabilisation system.
“Firing!”
The shell hit but bounced off, defeated by the T34s angled armour.
“Tank halt!”
Charles hadn’t given the order, and his first reaction was to tear a strip off his gunner.
“Firing!”
The shell ran inch perfect, struck the advancing tank under the gun mantlet and penetrated the turret mount, knocking the heavy lump of metal backwards.
Aided by a bump that raised the front of the Soviet tank, the entire turret slipped off the chassis, neatly cutting two of its crew in half on its travels.
As the turret slid to the ground, a huge flash marked the start of a summer thunderstorm.
The roll of thunder that followed indicated that the heart of the storm was close by.
The rain descended like a burst dam, immediately reducing visibility to a few yards.
Charles closed his eyes, mentally conjuring up the images of the enemy tanks.
“Driver, left turn… down the track… slowly… gunner, turret right six. Don’t wait for my order… engage on sight.”
Lady Godiva III moved down the track, its dirt already turned to mud by the torrential downpour.
Charles, eyes glued to his optics, opened his mouth, as a dark shape grew into something more tangible.
The 20-pdr lashed out and the dark shape became light as fire consumed it.
“Nice one, Pats. Prepare to engage to front. Driver… take the tank right… pass down the right of that burning tank… on the other side of the hedge… not too close.”
The Centurion moved to the right and dodged behind the hedgerow as Patterson brought the turret to the inline position.
Charles was gambling that the other enemy tank would avoid the fire and would use the hedgerow for cover, placing the vegetation between it and the growing illumination of its comrade’s funeral pyre.
He was partially right.
A shell struck the front glacis of Godiva, smashing the spare track links housed there and burrowing into the armoured plate.
The Centurion’s armour won the battle and prevented full penetration.
Faced with the imminence of death, Wild lost control of his bladder.
“Driver, reverse, angle front! Where’s the bastard at?”
No one answered Charles.
Another shell streaked past the wounded Centurion, missing high and wide down the right side.
Wild spotted their tormentor.
“He’s in the fucking hedge, Pats! Left two… see ’im?”
The tank lurched as Patterson fired and stabilisation system failed to compensate in time, sending the shell into the ground twenty yards short of the enemy vehicle.
The Soviet tank stayed still, the tank commander electing to give himself the best chance of a kill whilst risking his own by being an easier target.
“Jink, Laz, for fuck’s sake jink!”
The 100mm shell missed the nearside front by a whisker, a small manoeuvre by Wild undoubtedly saving his own life.
However, it didn’t miss everything.
Firstly, the shell hit the top of the last but one road wheel, which deflected it slightly upwards, again deflecting off the drive sprocket, which altered the shell’s course once again, and it nearly vertical, punching through the track before it exited through the nearside exhaust system and flew skywards, still in search of more resistance.
Laz Wild instinctively touched the brakes, which imposed enough strain on the damaged track for it to separate.
Not that anyone needed to be told, Wild shouted automatically.
“Track’s gone!”
Patterson held his breath and fired.
His aim was true and the Soviet tank commander’s gamble with his and his crew’s lives failed.
Charles stuck his head out of the cupola and grimaced, as the driving rain and increasing flashes of lightning made vision difficult.
He could see nothing, except the shattered remnants of the exhaust system.
“Laz, make an assessment. I’ll cover you. Commander out.”
He pushed himself up into the driving rain, and immediately felt chilled to the bone, as his uniform provided little protection against the elements.
He dropped into the mud and took a quick look at the damage.
Wild moved past him and knelt in the quagmire, running his hands over the shiny scars that marked the enemy shell’s progress.
His assessment was short and sweet.
“Workshops job, Sarnt-Major. Sprocket’s cracked… track’s well shot… exhaust’s non-existent… plus, there’s summat else… not sure what… but the engine don’t sound right.”
Charles concentrated and realised he could detect a rhythmic knocking that was not normally present.
Lazarus Wild volunteered a little more information.
“So long as the engine holds out, we can move on the spot, but we ain’t going nowhere, Sarnt-Major… not without proper kit to mend this feckin lot.”
The coaxial machine gun cut through their conversation, and Beefy emerged from the turret, exposing his considerable upper body to the elements.
“Sarnt-Major! Looks like some of their infantry bastards are on top of the hill where we were earlier. Pats thinks he saw a bazooka or summat like it. Can we move?”
Charles shook his head as he turned to view the high ground they had vacated.
The shape was barely discernible in the rain.
He saw no movement, but sensed they were there.
A bullet came out of nowhere and pinged off Godiva’s side armour.