“Right, Laz… back in the tank with you. Not healthy out here.”
Both men clambered back into the tank, dripping water everywhere as their uniforms rid themselves of the rain.
“How many, Pats?”
“Saw three for sure… next to that felled tree trunk just off the top… one with what looked like a bazooka… took a chance burst… don’t think I hit the buggers… went to ground and ain’t showed their noggins since.”
“Load canister, Beefy… can you pepper the spot with a shotgun round, Pats?”
“No problem, Sarnt-Major.”
“Do it.”
Patterson gave himself a little more elevation and the breech flew back as the 20-pdr’s purpose-built canister shell sent its deadly little projectiles into the general area around the tree trunk.
Even through the rain, both Patterson and Charles saw a red mist as at least one enemy suffered a telling hit.
Four men rose up out of nowhere and ran in all directions, desperate to escape a second shot.
The .30cal followed two of them, chasing at their heels, as Patterson walked the coaxial into their defenceless bodies, putting both men down.
“Didn’t see your bazooka man, Pats.”
His reply was lost in a horrible sound from the tank engine, one that was immediately followed by silence, as Laz Wild killed it to prevent further damage.
As the sound of the Meteor died away, the storm reasserted itself, and the wind and constant battering of heavy drops created a soft and comforting sound that, had they not been in the middle of a battle, would have sent Godiva’s crew to sleep.
The sharp crack of a 17-pdr to their right announced that friendly vehicles were now closer than before.
Charles stuck his head out of the cupola and swept the hillside with his binoculars, seeking something, finding nothing.
A growing sound of distress caught his attention, and he lowered the binoculars in time to see an Allied Mustang fighter, belching smoke and flame, sweep low overhead, the pilot clearly desperate to find somewhere to land his crippled aircraft.
A few seconds later, the sound of an explosion betrayed the unfortunate American’s failure, although the rain and storm kept its location a secret.
Charles shook his head, wondering how many men had already died this day.
He wiped his eyes and resumed looking for…
“Infantry to front, 11 o’clock, Pats, hit the bastards quick!”
The turret whirred to the left but the rocket was already in the air.
The Soviet version of the panzerschreck was every bit as deadly as its German forebear, but only if it hit.
The rocket sped past as the main gun flew back on its trunnions once more, Patterson electing to put a canister shell on the target instead of using the coaxial.
The three-man crew and their weapon were utterly destroyed, the heavy ball bearings wiping through man and metal without feeling any resistance.
Even through the rain, it was an awful sight.
“Fucking hell! I mean… fucking hell!”
Wild had his head out the hull hatch and had the closest view of the carnage created by the canister shell.
He dropped back in out of the rain and added the contents of his stomach to that of his bladder.
Silverside, the only man who had not seen the after-effects of the canister shell, went to lighten the obvious tension.
“’Ere Sarnt-Major… seeing as wee’m unable to keep a tank for more’n one bleedin’ punch-up nowadays… do yer think if this one’s totally fucked, we may not get another fucker, and they’ll have to send us home?”
Charles laughed without too much humour and stuck his head back out of the cupola, announcing his views into the intercom.
“Buggered tank or no, the Gods of War ain’t finished with us yet… not by a long chalk, Beefy.”
As if by reply, the Gods of War decided to redouble their efforts at creating the perfect thunderstorm, as the lightning and rain took over their every sense.
Less than an hour had passed, but much had changed for both sides.
Lieutenant Colonel Sarkashian was part apoplectic with rage, part stoical in the face of the inevitable.
His driver had received both barrels for crashing into a friendly tank, despite the fact that he had been stationary at the time, and the other tank had cornered at the highest possible speed.
Under a tarpaulin, Sarkashian knelt down at the side of his command tank with his 2IC and examined a damp map.
“Vadim, we’re fighting here, but the situation is unclear.”
He circled Dütschow, where his lead elements had been stopped by another British tank force arriving on trailers. Information had stopped flowing from the commander some while ago, and Sarkashian had sent out reconnaissance teams to establish what was going on.
They had yet to report back.
“Behind us, the British have withdrawn into the area south of Neu Matzlow and our boys cannot shift them back further.”
Guards Major Vadim Rozhinsky nodded, seemingly more concerned with keeping his cigarette dry than contributing to the discussion.
However, looks were deceiving, and he tapped the map with a decided flourish.
“That may be our opportunity then, Comrade PodPolkovnik. We’re already around them. Perhaps we should strike into their flank up this road.” He screwed up his eyes to better make out the detail, “…Route 59 will take us further behind them, and then turn right onto Route 9 and we have them by the balls.”
“Maybe, maybe not, Vadim. I have no knowledge of what is here… at Matzlow… and the units I sent out to scout our left flank have not reported in.”
Rozhinsky understood the dilemma and put it into words.
“So, if you advance to isolate the British here, you risk exposing the flank to whatever may be here, or whatever defenders the enemy has in Matzlow… and there has to be something there, yes?”
Sarkashian nodded.
“Also, the situation in Dutschow is unclear, and we may have an enemy mobile force to our rear?”
Sarkashian took a long drag on his cigarette, trying to see a solution.
“The solution seems clear to me, Comrade PodPolkovnik.”
“Enlighten me, Comrade Mayor.”
“We cannot advance at this time, for fear of losing everything we have already paid for with the blood of our soldiers. Information is key here, and this fucking storm isn’t helping either side, but I think it hinders us more here, even if it is keeping their fucking aircraft off us for the moment.”
Rozhinsky took a final puff and threw the dog end into a large puddle.
“So I think we must send out more probes… find out what we face…”
Sarkashian interrupted after adding his own cigarette butt to the rainwater.
“And if we let the British force escape, when we could’ve encircled and destroyed them?”
Rozhinsky shrugged as only the Russians can shrug.
“Whatever you do will be criticised, Comrade PodPolkovnik… this you know. So perhaps the decision should be one that you know won’t endanger your soldiers and make sure they’re ready to fight for the Motherland on another day?”
A heavy burst of rain made conversation momentarily impossible, as the tarpaulin resounded to the constant strikes of heavy rainfall.
It gave Sarkashian time to think.
He found many reasons to support his decision.
“We will stop here until I get better information as to what is to my flank and ahead. This will also enable us to restock our fuels and ammunition… and for our artillery to reorganise itself.”
Sarkashian was still smarting from the loss of his valuable artillery reserve, a major contributing factor to his perception that his attack had, thus far, failed to properly progress.