Happy with his understanding of the battle to come, he emerged from the turret of the monster tank, swinging up his binoculars to take in any sights of the battle being fought in and around Niesig.
Smoke and dust obscured his vision, but he could decipher enough of the battlefield to understand that the progress was good, something immediately reinforced by the crackle of the radio, announcing the start of phase two of the 259th’s advance, as well as reporting minimal casualties.
“Crew report.”
“Driver, everything good, Major.”
“Gunner, no problems, Sir.”
The four men had no issues, and neither had he expected any, but it paid to be sure, and you could never check too much.
“Father, did you check the squawk box?”
“Yes, sir, Major, sir. Dawn check, sir.”
The new and painfully young addition to the crew was keen and efficient, but somehow Parker felt he wasn’t going to quite fit in.
“Check it again, father.”
Lawrence Priest pushed open his hatch and dropped to the ground, smiling at his nickname, seeing it as a sign of acceptance from the experienced men, who, for their part, saw it as nothing more than ragging the new boy.
The telephone burst into life, marking a successful test of the vital communications tool.
“OK, father, Get back aboard.”
Following procedures, Priest moved quickly round to the front of the tank, from where the driver could see him, before clambering back up the front plate and dropping into his hull gunner position.
Soviet counter-fire, nowadays rarely effective, made its presence known amongst the advancing 259th’s infantrymen, a blossoming orange ball indicating where some vehicle had taken a devastating artillery or mortar hit.
Over the radio, the warning order gave everyone the heads up to be ready to move.
Dewey, the gunner, popped his head up through the hatch and produced a packet of cigarettes, using a hand gesture to seek permission.
Parker nodded and Dewey lit two, slipping one between the commander’s lips, receiving a grunt by way of acknowledgement.
Sucking gently on the ‘Old Gold’, the harsh unfiltered smoke drying his throat, Nathaniel Parker checked Height 434 again, sensing rather than seeing the progress of the lead infantry elements. He looked again to the south, but had no view of the progress towards Künzell.
The radio crackled with an urgent report from one of his commanders.
Turning to face the direction the captain’s unit was placed, the rising smoke confirmed the seriousness of the fire that had started to engulf one of his heavy tanks.
‘Fucking artillery got lucky, goddamnit.’
It was an inauspicious start to the attack, a near miss having started a fire in the engine compartment, but the captain moved his command to another tank, kicking out the incumbent sergeant and leaving him to sort out the fire fighting and repair of the command tank.
Ears accustomed to the sounds of battle suddenly prickled at the changes ringing around the fields and houses.
“That’s high-velocity shit.”
“Damn right, Art, something…”
The radio assaulted his ears, calls for help and warnings scrambling with each other for priority and airtime.
An organised attack had suddenly gone completely pear-shaped.
“Brandy-two-six, Brandy-two-six, all units Brandy. Prepare to move forward. Out.”
The useless soldier that Parker had been was now a serious asset, and the asset instinctively knew that the 259th’s doughboys had run into trouble.
No order came.
Parker waited.
The combat seemed to be intensifying.
As one, he and Dewey threw their dog ends away and exchanged simple nods.
The gunner dropped into the tank and called for APCR in the gun.
“Brandy-two-six, Brandy-two-six, all units Brandy…advance.”
B Company and its support units moved forward.
The 259th had moved past Niesig and were in the valley between the village and their final objective when all hell broke loose.
Mines had been the start, and then a handful of anti-tank guns.
The infantry pressed on until Soviet tanks came into play, at which time the fight became uneven and assault quickly turned to a desperate fight to preserve the units.
Soviet mortars switched targets to heap more hurt on the bogged down GIs, and casualties started to mount.
Bazookas knocked down a few of the T34m44s, but not enough, and the lead elements of the Battle-axe Division were suddenly in danger of being overrun.
Parker swung his first platoon more to the left flank, with orders to support the infantry as soon as possible, the recon elements assigned to his company pushing hard, trying to get information for him as to what the hell was happening to the soldiers of the 259th.
All hell broke loose in short order, and Parker became quickly aware of a swarm of enemy tanks on his left flank.
The Super Pershings of his 1st Platoon were engaging, and their 90mm guns immediately made themselves felt against the inferior enemy armour.
Halting to fire, the first shell from each tank drew blood from a target in the valley and immediately the officers and men of the 259th felt the pressure ease, as the T34s went quickly through the gears to high speed, jinking to avoid the deadly guns that could kill them with impunity.
But the Soviet commander did not lack courage, and his orders brought his tanks closer and closer to the Super Pershings of 1st Platoon.
He also committed his ace in the hole, his own upgunned tanks, the hasty marriage of the ubiquitous T34 and the 100mm.
The design was not without faults, but the gun was deadly against all but the most superior armoured of targets.
Unfortunately for the Russian tankers, the Super Pershing was just that.
The single version to see action in the previous war had benefitted from extra armour plate welded on in the field, be it boilerplate or recovered pieces of German tanks.
The production versions were born with all the armour they could ever need, but paid the price for their virtual invulnerability with slower speeds and manoeuvrability.
The armour on the hull and turret front approached 200mm thickness and it, and other additions on the hull and turret sides, were spaced, to reduce the effectiveness of hollow-charge weapons, particularly the Panzerfaust or Soviet equivalent, a weapon that still brought sleepless nights to most Allied tankers.
One of the Soviet copies of the lethal weapon dispatched the lead M5 recon tank as it picked its way forward, the tank commander in mid-report with his own commanding officer, a radio message that stopped abruptly and would never be resumed.
The light tank smoked briefly and then the fire came, hounding three of the crew from their refuge behind the knocked-out vehicles. It took less than a minute for the tank to become a cauldron and then explode as its ammunition gave up the struggle against the heat.
Soviet infantry helped the running tankers on their way with bursts of DP fire.
The T34m45/100 tanks were at the rear of the enemy push, taking time to engage, making sure of their shots.
A solid lump of metal struck the front of Parker’s tank, and deflected away, missing his head by no more than three feet.
He felt the gut-wrenching assault of fear and strove to control his stomach, determined to keep his meal down, fighting against the attempts of his system to throw up.
Another shell came close, throwing earth and debris up other the tank.
He vomited, sending his egg and bacon breakfast down the side of the turret and onto the top armour, following it up quickly with the rest of the meal plus coffee.