He now lay amongst the dead, although his men successfully retook the lost metres, throwing the stunned Siberians back down the slope.
An Acting Oberleutnant took command and reorganised the reserve, ready to meet any more threats.
Back closer to Brahmsee, the combined Soviet tank and infantry force broached the water defence.
A 6pdr anti-tank gun of the Irish Guards, stationed six hundred yards behind the bridge, took on the lead T-34/85, scoring three hits without inflicting noticeable damage, before it was obliterated by the tank’s second shell.
The gunners had succeeded solely in slowing the enemy advance, the tanks and infantry renewing the attack with the benefit of some mortar support. The 3rd Battalion’s 82mm mortars put down an accurate mix of smoke and HE on the defending machine-gunners.
A platoon of Siberians tried to sneak around the lakeside of Brahmsee, keeping low to avoid being spotted. Failing to see the final platoon of the machine-gun company, half of them fell before they gave up the attempt and withdrew to cover further back.
Another anti-tank gun died.
It had been deliberately keeping quiet, waiting for an easier shot. The weapon’s position was betrayed by a young gunner in the act of urination. The experienced tankers of the 34th Guards potted the movement and put HE shells into the woods, adjacent to their first kill.
Gun and gunners came apart under the hits.
The lead T-34 committed to the bridge. The Siberians, conscious of their job to keep enemy AT weapons at bay, pushed hard, shooting down a PIAT team that moved too soon from its concealed position.
A second tank, then a third, crossed the small bridge.
The fourth disintegrated as a solid shot took it under the turret, flinging the heavy mass of metal backwards and into the water.
The hull crew scrambled out, dazed and shocked, a Vickers machine-gun reaching out and touching both fatally.
The three tanks that had crossed already were in a funk, not knowing what had killed their comrade, but understanding that only movement would prevent them following their friends into Valhalla.
All decided to turn right, imagining the threat to be in the woods dead ahead, and seeing safety in the woods to the right.
The commander of the JagdPanzer IV needed no second invitation, his order sending a 75mm high-velocity shell into the side of the rearmost tank.
The T-34 started to burn immediately.
A few Grenadieres on the reverse slope saw the fatal strike and played the game they loved to play with the Red Army tank men.
Their bullets beat upon the armour, keeping the tankers inside until the heat grew too much and they had to either bale out and risk being mown down, or stay, and burn to death.
There was no love lost between the infantry and the tanks at such times.
The men chose bullets rather than fire, and none made it to safety.
The tank platoon commander ordered his unit to advance over the bridge, relaying the news of something nasty in the vicinity, position unknown. He made the safety of the woods, putting solid green between him and the probable killer.
Behind him, the second tank took a hit, confirming the direction of the killer’s location, something he immediately passed on to his men.
Spewing black fumes, the wounded T-34/85 rallied, and made the safety of green mass.
The safety was an illusion.
Smoke trails erupted from the leafy shadows, panzerfausts aimed by vengeful men, two targeted on each tank.
The Commander’s tank blew up, immolating the crew in seconds, both panzerfausts striking home and penetrating the armour.
Only one struck the labouring second tank, detonating on the mudguard.
In a panic, the driver slewed his tank to the right, heading for the north side, putting distance between him and the killer woods.
Exposing his tank to the Centurion.
“Target tank, one o’clock, range four-fifty!”
A short delay as the electrics moved the turret the required amount.
“Gunner, on!”
“Fire!”
Patterson was on a roll, a fourth T-34 knocked out before his eyes.
“Gunner, it’s still moving!”
Patterson had hit the damn thing, he knew he had, but there it was, still ploughing forward, kicking out more smoke than a rubber factory on fire.
“Gunner on!”
“Fire!”
A definite shower of sparks; another hit.
“Pats, are you firing fookin blanks, sunny Jim?”
Incredibly, the T-34 was still rolling, its turret turning, seeking its assailant.
“Right ho, Gunner. Deep breaths. Get this one right or it’s the cookhouse for yer. Line her up, Pats.”
To Patterson, this was an affront to his professionalism.
Taking extra care, he slowly rotated, leading the tank in textbook fashion.
“Gunner on!”
“Fire!”
As unspectacular as the previous hits had been, the final shot brought about the catastrophic destruction of the third tank.
When the smoke had cleared sufficiently, all the crew could see was a useless lump of metal, already beginning to glow dark red.
Back at the bridge, the rest of the Guards tanks enjoyed little success, the JagdPanzer IV stripping the track off the second in command’s vehicle.
Communications were virtually non-existent, any contact with supporting artillery impossible.
An enterprising infantry officer dispatched a runner with written coordinates, aiming him at the headquarters in the town behind them.
A grenadiere dropped the volunteer, knocking the life out of him with a Mauser rifle bullet, the message fluttering away on the breeze, never to be delivered.
Overhead came six IL-10 aircraft, rather less than the number that had distracted O’Rourke previously.
The survivors of the 118th Guards Assault Aviation Regiment were not alone, harried and hounded by the Spitfire Mk IX’s of 308[Polish] Squadron RAF.
A Spitfire staggered in mid-air as its engine was flayed by the rear-gunner of the last Ilyushin.
At that height, there was little the pilot could do but try to control the crash.
The Spitfire smashed into houses in Langwedel, killing indiscriminately, German civilian and Soviet soldier alike.
The airborne melee disappeared from view, heading deep into Soviet territory.
In Langwedel, all was chaos.
Buildings were burning and the rescuers, soldiers of the headquarters submachine-gun company, found corpses and body parts spread throughout the scene, the Polish fighter having scythed through a kindergarten on the Rotdornweg, in use as a safe haven for the families of Langwedel.
It had been clearly marked so that it would not be attacked, something the already dead commander of the 67th Guards Rifle Regiment had found too attractive to ignore, moving his headquarters close by.
The staff of the 67th had also suffered. Although their building was missed by the impact, flammable aviation fuel first sprayed and then ignited, turning the large house into an inferno.
The Soviet attack was leaderless and uncontrolled, descending into a self-preservation exercise for the individual units.
Leaving a platoon of his men, the SMG company commander decided he could do little wrong if he headed to the sound of the guns.
Senior Lieutenant Yolkov ordered his remaining men forward, presenting a strange sight to the uninitiated.
His unit had been issued with steel plates as body armour, something they had baulked at using, until they had experienced its effectiveness.
Almost resembling knights of old, the eighty men doubled out of Langwedel, aiming to make contact with the 3rd Battalion and seek orders.
What Yolkov did not realise was that he was the senior surviving officer in the whole regiment, so the orders were his to give.