The last few yards to the river positions had been a nightmare for him, a lump of mortar shell embedded in his left buttock.
Mearns slipped easily into the small hollow and took in the sight of the Captain, his trousers round his ankles, the medic probing in a small bloody hole in the man’s backside.
Towers had a sense of humour failure.
“One word out of you, Win, and I will shoot you myself, clear?”
“My lips are sealed Captain.”
One look at the Master Sergeant’s face was enough.
“Yes, it hurts OK?”
“Don’t they all Captain, don’t they all.”
“Are your boys ready for this now?”
A nod was sufficient.
“Casualties seem light.”
It was posed as a statement, but had all the hallmarks of a question.
“Reckon so, Captain. One of the 57’s is down, hit over the river, crew all dead. Some doughs gone too, but light, really light, considering.”
“Goddamnit Doc!”
The medic mumbled an apology and dropped the small fragment into the empty cigarette packet that he had provided for the purpose.
“Here you go, Sir. Souvenir for ya. Just gonna fix it up now, and it’ll be good as new.”
Towers slipped the packet into his pocket, very much doubting his ass would be ‘good as new’ for some time to come.
Mearns had slipped up to take a look at the field, and dropped back into the hollow again.
“Soon, Captain.”
Unable to resist a parting shot, Mearns made much play of checking the magazine in his BAR.
“Avoid the can ’til after the battle, Captain. With two assholes to choose from, an officer type, such as yourself, could be in there all day, deciding which to shit from.”
The laughter was universal, a light moment in a sea of hurt.
The moment passed as high-velocity guns started their deadly work.
The Soviets had codenamed the area ‘Subota’, as it was important, sitting on the left flank of their main advance.
Although it was apparently unoccupied, Antonov had ordered the 1st Infantry to move forward quickly and form a block.
The experienced Soviet Colonel returned to pushing the main assault forward, unaware that two problems were about to surface.
Firstly, the infantry fell foul of a small stream, the boggy ground slowing their forward momentum to a crawl.
Secondly, the defenders had recognized the significance of ‘Subota’, and it was occupied by an officer who knew his trade.
They ran straight into the waiting armored-infantry of the 53rd, set for precisely such a threat.
1st Company dropped into the marshy ground, their advance halted.
“Mohawk-Six, all Fox units, on my command,” he tapped the gunner and received a low uh-huh to indicate he was on target, “Fire!”
Positioned in camouflaged positions either side of Route 7776, the six M4A3E8 Shermans engaged the flanks of the lead IS-II’s.
In three incidences, the results were spectacular, a trio of the leviathans exploding in bright orange flame as vehicle and crew died together.
Two other ground to a halt, penetrating rounds wreaking havoc.
One heavy tank shrugged off the strike and turned to place its thicker frontal armour to the enemy.
Three shells hit it simultaneously, smashing wheels and tracks from its offside, the 57mm anti-tank guns of the 359th Infantry positioned across the river hitting in unison.
A PT76 suddenly realized it was a small fish in a big fish world, and jettisoned its Mugalev, turning in towards the farm buildings, seeking cover. It died instantly, transformed into an oily hearse by a high velocity 76mm shell.
“Nice shot, DeMarco.”
The gunner, light on words as ever, merely grunted and went about his business.
Antonov responded immediately.
He ordered the 1st Infantry to close up and distract whatever it was that was killing his tanks, ignoring the excuses and protestation of the commander on the ground, reporting the wet ground and new contact with dug-in infantry on the left flank of his position.
“Just get your men up there, Comrade Kapitan. Unless you want to command a penal mine detail!”
He shifted his heavy mortars to the river line, bringing down smoke to protect his flank, and swung part of his armour south towards the 7776 to take the enemy head-on.
The remainder of his force he halted level with the same route, with orders to engage any target to their front.
He moved his own reserve group up to the junction of the 7709 and 7707.
The 379th was held back, their next salvo saved until he knew exactly what was happening. The SU-76’s of the 1504th were given orders to move up closer to the action.
One of the defending M4’s took a hit. The 122mm shell was not a precision instrument like the scalpel of a surgeon; more the blunt sledgehammer of the labourer.
This sledgehammer removed the turret with ease, propelling it backwards over one hundred yards.
Hardegen, angry at the loss of one of his senior NCO’s, put one right on the money, but the shell speared into the sky, bouncing off the thick armour of the IS tank.
The Soviet vehicle moved forward and disappeared behind a small rise in the ground.
The radio crackled, and the high-pitched voice of Captain Clayton penetrated the sounds of battle.
“All Dog units, on my order… fire!”
From behind the rise came a flash. Instantly, black oily smoke marked the spot the IS had died.
Nine IS-II’s now lay immobile on the field of battle, over half of those committed, all for the loss of an anti-tank gun and a Sherman.
The 1st Company, 185th Guards Rifle Regiment had run into big trouble, barbed wire, booby traps, mines, the whole area swept with fire from US armored-infantry and tanks, all well hidden in trenches, tank pits, or in the woods by the river.
Casualties were murderous, and made worse when the US infantry commander brought his mortars into play, tree bursts wreaking their own special brand of horror on the unfortunate soldiers.
Antonov received the reports impassively, his Armoured Group desperately fighting back.
He got through on the radio to Corps commander.
The situation was grave, but not unsalvageable. Nonetheless, he broached the possibility of withdrawing and going around the stubborn defence. The reply virtually mirrored that he had given to the infantry officer a few minutes beforehand, so he concentrated on the task in hand, splitting the efforts of his tanks between the two main sources of enemy fire.
Across the river, an enemy vehicle blossomed into an orange ball, as two 122mm’s simultaneously struck its turret and hull, causing the Sherman to disintegrate. A huge solid metal lump cartwheeled skywards, as if carried on the wall of flame.
Encouraged by this, and other reports of more success to the south, Antonov brought his reserve up, focusing on the prize of the 7776 bridge at ‘Sreda’.
The radio exchange had terminated abruptly, D Company’s commanders situation report cut short by the arrival of the two heavy tank shells.
The second in command took over.
Hardegen received the report of Clayton’s death impassively, setting aside the loss of another old comrade to fight his tank, and command his unit.
“Mohawk-Six, Zebra in position. Waiting orders.”
Hardegen’s ace, held back from the obvious artillery target of the dominating high ground, had moved up and was now in position.
Normally, the 37th Tanks didn’t have the ‘Zebras’ on its TOE, but in times of war, things change. Hardegen had welcomed the three vehicles into his unit, their own parent formation long since gutted north of Munich.