The ATPAU crew knew they had been lucky.
Morozov had fired back, but his shell had either missed or had no effect. If it was the latter, then they were in even bigger trouble.
‘What is that thing?’
“What the fuck is that thing, Roman?”
“Never seen one before, but I know I don’t fucking like it. Driver, back off down the slope. We’ll try another way.”
The IS-IV reversed.
The deadly Einhorn waited for it to reappear.
Jarome found the severed electrical cable quite quickly, and rigged a workable repair.
“It’ll keep, just don’t catch it when you’re loading.”
“Good work, Hans.”
Köster returned to thinking through the problem.
“It’s not coming. That other gun was a one-twenty-eight… either a Pak or the Einhorn… he’ll have fucked off.”
Köster was not canvassing opinions, merely talking aloud.
“If he’s the steely type he seems to be… well, he won’t be running… he’ll be trying to do the job…”
The map revealed a track through the woods they were hiding in.
“He’ll need to stay below the ridgeline… he’ll move to the north… and try to come up this side of that lane… right, Klaus… take her out and right… follow the tree line until you find a track on the right… turn down it and make best speed… got that?”
“Jawohl, Oberscharfuhrer!”
Köster laughed.
“Ten-a-Pfennig drivers, I shit ’em!”
Lohengrin lurched forward and out of cover.
Köster was technically correct in his reasoning, but incorrect overall, as he didn’t understand the full nature of the circumstances.
Kon would have taken the fight on further, but his brief was already exceeded, and the safety of the experimental IS-IV was of greater concern to him.
His map was an old German military one, which was far superior to the ones his own leadership expected him to fight with.
“There’s a track… through the woods… we’ll use that… signal the grape to get back on the tank.”
Morozov stuck his head out the turret and waved at the infantry NCO. The soldiers bolted back towards the IS-IV, keen to leave what was clearly a tank-rich environment.
Kon spoke into the intercom.
“Leonid, as soon as the infantry are back on, we’ll move off… head towards the woods down this road… when you get to the trees, turn left and follow the tree line… the track will be on the right… about sixty metres or so… straight in and out, as quickly as we can… downhill and to the right… I’ll reassess then.”
The track was overgrown, and visibility was not great, hardly enough to remain on the track as far as Klaus Meier and Leonid Kartsev were concerned.
The two tanks entered different ends of the one hundred and fifty metre long track at almost precisely the same moment.
What happened would, much later, be described as a replication of a joust of old, with two armoured knights charging each other, flat out, with lances raised.
The foliage receded, permitting both tanks to see each other.
The gap gave little time for anything but a snap shot.
The IS-IV shot first, Morozov firing purely on instinct.
The muzzle flash from the 88mm overwhelmed his vision, and the immense clang on the ISs turret indicated a hit.
The screams from outside indicated that things had gone badly for the infantry clinging to the heavy tank.
The 130mm had screamed inches over the top of the Tiger’s turret.
Kon and Köster now shared half a second for a decision on a matter of life and death.
They both decided on the same course of action.
“Ram!”
Kartsev and Meier were mirror images, huddling in their driving positions as they accelerated towards the other steel beast, conscious that nothing good was going to come of the collision.
“Hang on!”
The gun tubes rubbed briefly as the distance closed and the tanks smashed into each other, nose to nose… but not quite.
The track was uneven, and the piece of dirt on which the Tiger raced raised itself slightly, whereas, under the IS-IV it fell away, creating a difference of roughly a foot or so, but a foot was enough to give Lohengrin the advantage; that, and the Russian tank’s angled bow.
The height difference allowed the Tiger to rise up on the front of the IS, its momentum driving the fifty-six tons of metal underneath the huge 130mm barrel, causing it to deflect and bend, and rendering it useless.
The impact was less jarring than that with the ZSU in many ways; certainly less destructive on Lohengrin’s crew.
The same could not be said for the IS-IV and her servers.
Hero of the Soviet Union Sergeant David Kolesnikov, experienced a nano-second of abject terror before the heavy breech of the 130mm was displaced, mashing his torso against the steel turret wall.
Death was instant.
Sergeant Oleg Morozov had no such luck.
The displacing trunnions sent metal work flying in all directions, and one piece smashed into his forehead, opening up the skull and revealing its contents.
His screams echoed through the huge tank and he clawed at Kon, covering him with blood and other less savoury matter.
Kartsev, closest to the point of impact, was unharmed, but reduced to tears by the sound of Morozov’s suffering.
“Kill him… for the love of God… kill him…”
He became almost unhinged by the screaming, the animal-like squeals of suffering.
Morozov was flailing around now, his sightless eyes betraying him as he clashed with the internals of the tank.
The snap of his arm as he smashed it against the breech was like a gunshot.
Kon, his dislocated shoulder preventing him from reaching for his revolver, could not help the dying man.
Metal started to squeal, adding its awful sound to the pitiful Morozov’s, and Kon tried to clear his head, realising it had to be the enemy tank moving off.
He had nothing to fight it with, but he would ram it again if he had to.
The screaming ceased in an instant.
The wounded gunner had dashed his head against the turret side and driven a small bracket into the exposed soft tissue.
Still he did not die, but death would embrace him within minutes, and do so quietly.
Kon looked through the vision block on his cupola.
“Leonid… we need to ram him again!”
The engine turned over, but refused to start, sending black clouds out the rear and causing the four surviving infantrymen to cough and splutter.
Enough was enough, and the broken riflemen headed into the trees, intent on escape.
Kon pushed himself upwards, his shoulder sending shivers of pain through his body.
The object of his attention, the 12.7mm DShK machine-gun, had a curious curve to the end of its barrel, enough to render it inoperable.
“Ram the bastard! Ram the bastard!”
“Comrade Starshina. The engine’s dead. We can’t move.”
The Tiger… Kon recognised the type now… sat there, its own engine turning over, gun barrel pointed at the IS-IV, and his counterpart revealing his eyes over the top of a hatch cover.
“Mudaks!”
Kon lapsed into silence before speaking in a softer tone.
“Can you get out, Leonid?”
The clanging sound of metal reached Kon’s ears.
“Yes. My hatch is fine, Comrade.”
“Then I order you to make your escape, Leonid. Move!”
The driver pushed himself up slowly, not wishing to break the uneasy truce that seemed to be in place.
He moved up onto the turret and looked at Kon.
“And you, Comrade? Are you coming?”
Kon smiled and coughed a little blood.