Выбрать главу

His interpretation, some would call it guess, seemed correct.

Fig# 176 - Naugard - Second phase of Allied assault.

There was no urgency about the Allied thrust; no speedy work, except for the group driving hell for leather at Yarishlov.

He eyed his PPSh, hanging on an old hat stand, and momentarily considered driving out to support his friend on the field of battle, but those days were, for him, now gone.

So he studied the map, absorbed the changes, the new reports, the spoken information, and imagined himself leading soldiers in battle alongside Yarishlov’s tanks

He closed his eyes and could imagine the green tanks in the green woods, moving into firing positions…

1249 hrs, Monday, 1st April 1946, HQ, 7th Guards Tank Assault Brigade, Forward positions, Schwarzow - Naugard road, Pomerania.

The green tanks moved forward through the green woods, carefully easing themselves into prime firing positions, their caution aided by the Typhoons now circling the battlefield, waiting patiently for a target of opportunity.

The Allied artillery had stopped, the last shell dropping short of the woods by just under fifty metres. Not dangerous as such, but close enough to leave little silver scars on the nearest tanks, courtesy of shrapnel from the huge shell.

The SMG battalion shook out well behind the T-54s, its role now one solely of covering their armoured comrades’ rear, keeping any infantry anti-tank teams from getting in close.

The tactics that were to be used excluded them from sitting tight to the T-54’s.

Some medium artillery started to drop in the woods and achieved some success amongst the infantry. Most importantly, amongst the command group, who suffered one direct and two close hits in under two minutes. Men and equipment suffered badly, and a lesser unit might have had problems, but the 7th Guards SMG Battalion was an experienced unit.

As their former commander and half his staff were taken away to the casualty station, the Battalion command shifted effortlessly to a Major who knew his business just as well.

Kriks had passed Deniken’s orders and was now in his own tank, three to the left of his commander.

Radio communications still only existed in limited numbers of tanks, and these, reasonably enough, were reserved for unit commanders.

That the Soviet sets were unreliable was a fact of life the Red Army tankers simply accepted with stoicism, unless they were lucky enough to have their set replaced with one ‘liberated’ from enemy vehicles. Poor radio communications was a fact of life that hamstrung the effectiveness of the Soviet war machine throughout the conflict.

Yarishlov spoke into his microphone softly, his eyes firmly glued to the enemy force, estimating the range.

“Drakon-lider, all commands. Stand by.”

There was a certain irony that the first real opposition his unit would face would be tanks born in the same factories as those the 7th rode into battle.

The approaching front of metal consisted of IS-IIs and T-34s, more the former than the latter, which made them renegade Poles, and beneath contempt.

“Drakon-lider, all commands. Tanks to front are Soviet build. You know their weak spots. Stand by.”

The IS-IIs made Yarishlov think, their thick armour worrying him into delaying the fire order.

Kriks was humming ‘Kalinka’ to himself, his nervous energy building up and needing some sort of release.

He had long ago selected his first target, an IS-II virtually at 0° to him, one he had selected according to doctrine, to avoid multiple shots at one target.

His headset spoke and he automatically gave the order.

Yarishlov had sprung the ambush.

The opening volley was spectacular for a number of reasons.

The first reason was that the 100mm gun on the T-54 had excellent hitting and penetrative power, and made short work of the T-34m44s available, only one surviving the initial salvo of AP shells.

The second reason was the incredible sight of numerous white blobs bouncing skywards, as IS-II armour proved its value against 100mm shells.

Yarishlov gave the order.

“Drakon-lider, all tanks, advance! Out.”

The T-54s pushed forward immediately, knowing that the woods would soon become an artillery killing zone. Keen to get closer to the IS-IIs, understanding that losses would occur once the Typhoons understood the danger, and accepting them for the safety that proximity to the enemy offered.

The 7th Guards were well trained, despite the limitations of supply, and practised move-stop-fire tactics to increase their hit ratios.

Yarishlov saw an opportunity, as one IS-II swung on a broken track.

“Gunner, target tank at three left, nine hundred, engage.”

“Set.”

“FIRE!”

As soon as the shell left the barrel, the driver eased the T-54 forward and jinked left and centre, moving forward but changing lines.

Yarishlov slapped his gunner on the shoulder.

“Hit! Well done, Anatoly.”

The professional was back in an instant.

“Driver, halt. Gunner, target tank at zero, eight hundred. Engage.”

The delay was tangible.

“Set.”

“FIRE!”

The last T-34 exploded in a fireball, leaving no doubt about the effectiveness of the round.

“Driver, find me a hull down position.”

The driver had already scanned ahead but not seen anything suitable.

He moved the tank forward, angling left.

An opportunity presented itself immediately, and he dropped into a shell hole, shouting a warning as he approached.

The T-54 was swallowed up, the hole bigger than expected, leaving Yarishlov with no vision whatsoever.

“Sorry, Comrade Polkovnik.”

“This will have to do,” and Yarishlov eased himself up out of the cupola, discovering that if he knelt on the metal roof, propping himself against the DSHK mount, he could see the battlefield reasonably well.

The tactical situation was favourable and he pressed his mike to issue an order to take advantage of it.

“Drakon-Lider, Drakon-odin, come in.”

The first battalion commander responded immediately.

“Drakon-odin, move your battalion around to the left, circling the village. The enemy has narrowed his front. You can get at his flank, over.”

Dragon-one acknowledged and Yarishlov’s first tactical decision was implemented.

He then realised that he had made an error, the sort that could prove fatal on a battlefield policed by aircraft.

His tank had sat still for too long.

A typhoon was already in its death-bringing dive.

‘Blyad… no time!’

Instinctively, he dropped into the turret and grabbed the firing handles.

The Typhoon was aimed at a point behind Yarishlov, the pilot allowing for the natural fall of his rockets, which leapt from the rails in pairs, until all eight were in the air.

The heavy machine-gun rattled as Yarishlov put up his own message of defiance, his teeth gritted, but failing to prevent an animal-like sound of concentration and fear escaping.

For the crew of the T-54, everything suddenly went brown, as large quantities of earth arrived and covered the vehicle.

The rockets kept arriving, and more earth rained down.

Yarishlov dropped inside the turret, his face bleeding where something sharp had accompanied the earth.

The rockets missed.

Every one of them.

The large explosion that rocked the tank was not a rocket, but the Typhoon. Yarishlov had put five bullets into the most vulnerable piece of the flying machine; its pilot.