“Kukhnya-Zero, Uchitel-Zero, hold position, out.”
The IS-IIIs were mainly positioned on the eastern side of Height 434, oriented to the south and south-west, still perfectly placed for over watch of the US advance.
Yatzhin watched with pride as his two companies responded immediately, using the speed of their T34s to close down the distance, bringing the enemy closer, intent on reducing the effectiveness of their thick armour, and hoping to take advantage of the enemies’ slow speed and low manoeuvrability.
Just as he had been taught, and just as had proved successful at Kursk.
A roar overhead broke his moment of self-satisfaction.
“Blyad!”
Some new enemy aircraft swept overhead and dropped cluster munitions on the top and reverse slopes of the height opposite, and he knew he his force had just been badly hurt.
His AA defences were inadequate, and the second wave of aircraft attacked, easily putting their munitions right on target.
The third wave of aircraft, recognisable as P-47 Thunderbolts, swept lazily overhead, and bathed the Soviet defensive position with the now traditional application of deadly napalm.
He keyed the mike, sending an order to the Guards mortar unit, who in turn released their Katyusha rockets, turning the valley in front of Height 424 into a bloodbath, and hammering the second echelon of the US infantry attack.
True to their doctrine, the Guards Mortars started the process of rapid relocation before the last rocket left the rails.
Another order brought whatever artillery and mortar fire available to bear upon the stranded tanks of the US tank company to his front, where he determined to give his advancing T34s the best possible chance at success.
The screams pierced Parker’s concentration and he instinctively turned his head, just catching the red mist aftermath left by a mortar shell that destroyed two men working on the track of a nearby Super Pershing.
He had made a command decision.
Threatened by the advance of numerous enemy tanks, he should have withdrawn, but too many of his tanks had been disabled by mines, and to withdraw meant leaving them to be overrun and knocked out.
So, Nathaniel Parker elected to stay and fight, moving his remaining running tanks to the left flank.
His reasoning was sound.
He moved to cover the flank of the infantry, ensuring that the advancing enemy tanks had to deal with his unit first. Parker also gave at least part of his unit better angles on the approaching enemy vehicles.
He also hoped to move around the minefield, opening up his manoeuvre possibilities.
With the courage of desperate men, the disabled Pershings started to claim victims amongst the jinking T34s.
“Move up, nice and slow, stay tight.”
The group of seven tanks obeyed, moving ahead of their stranded comrades, changing the angles as Parker knew the move would.
The lead T34 responded, changing direction and hurtling towards his group, exposing a larger target to attack from the side.
The disabled Super Pershings needed no second invitation.
A shell went straight through the target, apparently without causing any real damage.
A second shell brought the now smoking tank to an immediate halt, and the crew abandoned under fire from coaxial machine guns.
A flash overhead heralded the arrival of more air support, and the smoking tank disintegrated as two rockets hit it flat on, sending metal in all directions.
The IS-IIIs commander, call sign Uchitel-zero, called his vehicles to cease fire, thus avoiding attracting swift retribution from the air.
The handful of static and mobile flak weapons available to the Russian force did what they could, and that was next to nothing, the nearest thing to victory a minor damage hit on one of the latest attackers, a Thunderbolt, which lost part of a wingtip as it wheeled away from delivering its rockets.
A clang announced a direct hit on the hull of Parker’s tank, but the solid shot soared skywards as the heavy plate resisted its attention.
Soon, the smell of faeces and urine reached the turret crew.
‘Father’ had lost control of both bowels and bladder with the fright of the impact.
No one said anything.
They had all been there before themselves.
Parker’s manoeuvre had worked, after a fashion, as the advancing tanks concentrated more on the running vehicles than those disabled in the minefield, which meant that the stationery vehicles enjoyed easier shots on their enemy.
The aircraft circled the battlefield, seeking employment, but conscious of the close proximity of the two armoured units.
Impatient, as only airmen can be, the USAAF pilots welcomed the unexpected arrival of some Mikoyans, and pursued the terrified Soviet pilots as far as they could.
It was an error.
Yatzhin seized the moment.
“Kukhnya-Zero, Uchitel-Zero, open fire on the mobile group immediately. Kill them all! Out.”
The silent IS-IIIs had been tracking their targets, waiting for the moment of release.
With the advantage of height, they fired, and their AP shells angled down on the Pershings, negating much of the slant of their armour.
“Fuck! Incom…”
Parker recoiled from the hatch and tensed as the white blob ate up the distance from tank to tank in the briefest of moments and arrived before he completed his warning.
Kerangg!
A wave of heat and sound assaulted every member of the crew.
Kerangg!
A second shot struck home.
Screaming…
“Shut the fuck up, father!”
It wasn’t father.
It was Middlemass, the driver, who had broken both ankles as the heavy shell had struck the front hull and the shock wave had travelled through all things metal until finding his vulnerable bones tensed against the pedals.
Kerangg!
The screams stopped and the metallic tang of blood and bone filled the inside of the tank.
The solid shot had punched through the plate and ploughed through the screaming driver on its way into the floor pan.
It did not explode.
Parker knew he was hurt, the blood flow down his head quickly impairing his vision, but not enough for him to fail to notice he no longer had a cupola.
The whole thing had been stripped away by the first hit and he had daylight above him.
“Everyone ok? Talk to me!”
Acknowledgements of different types came back from all but Middlemass, with only Dewey sounding in control of himself.
“I’m on, Major.”
“Take ’em out. I can’t see a fucking thing.”
The 90mm sent its reply towards its tormentors, but the IS-III it struck proved resilient.
Kerangg!
Another shell struck the front upper edge of the turret and disappeared off into the remains of the German village, doing further mischief amongst armored infantrymen waiting to advance,
“Gun’s fucked! Major, the gun’s fucked! No elevation.”
The barrel had dropped dramatically, pointing to the ground and it refused to respond to any adjustments.
The external stabiliser springs had been carried away, and the shock wave had done other damage to the gun mount.
Parker immediately knew the right thing to do.
“Shit! Abandon tank!”
Needing no second invitation, the four survivors bailed out.
Four became three as Rogers, the loader, took a bullet in the back of the head and dropped lifeless on the engine grilles.
The IS-IIIs were in the ascendency, and another of Parker’s tanks erupted in a storm of orange and red.
Parker checked his remaining two men, one of whom was wounded, one of which was terrified out of his skin.
Leaving Dewey in charge, the blood-covered Major Parker sprinted to the nearest tank and dropped in behind it, liberating the handset to the squawk box.