The ‘Zebras’ had earned their spurs against Hitler’s Panzers, and put their skills to good use all through the bitter days in August 1945.
To the crews of the M36B2 tank destroyers, this was going to be payback time.
“Zebra, this is Mohawk-Six, engage, over.”
The three shells ate up the four hundred and fifty yards to their targets.
One missed.
Two did not.
The 90mm’s had fired the deadly HVAP rounds, more than enough to penetrate the IS-II’s frontal armour at a thousand yards.
One shell each punched through the side armour of two of the heavy tanks engaging Hardegen’s force.
Apart from the death of its gunner, the first tank experienced no difficulties, the shell passing through and out the far side without causing major damage.
The second IS-II was knocked out when the HVAP shell penetrated and struck the breech of the gun, twisting the turret, and transforming the shell and parts of the main gun into deadly whirling fragments from which there was no escape.
The Russian Colonel knew he had a disaster on his hands.
‘Mudaks! This is murder!’
Antonov did what he could, directing fire against the high ground once more, bringing forward the infantry to assault the bridges direct whilst his beloved tanks soaked up the pressure.
Almost unbelievably, one of the PT76’s had got off a shot and killed something on the hill.
The Tank Officer had no idea what they were, except that they were deadly and now there was one less.
The PT slipped back behind its protective wall, only for two vengeful shells to punch through the brickwork, and reduce the medium tank to scrap.
Infantry from 2nd Company swarmed past his command tank, sensing that survival lay with closing to the enemy fast, as mortars and artillery started to fall around their positions.
Hardegen watched the surge and went to contact the artillery. The artillery contacted him first.
“Mohawk-six, this is Rainman. We are out in three, Have to keep some. Sorry, over.”
Hardegen had known that the artillery had very little ammunition, something that he had factored into his plans. However, now, faced with reality and prime targets, the loss of the 105’s was important.
“Roger Rainman, and thanks.”
Soviet infantry were dropping now, some in search of cover from which to fight back cover, others put there by bullets or fear.
Antonov gripped the cupola in his anxiety.
‘I must have that fucking bridge, or my men will have died for nothing!’
The Lieutenant Colonel ordered forward every man he had left to him, sending the Su76M’s of the 1504th forward to act as direct support, focusing all efforts on the 7776 bridge over the Argen.
“Mohawk-six, this is Apache-six, we are bugging out now.”
Hardegen acknowledged the expected message, the obvious wave of Soviet infantry inexorably pushing towards the river.
“Mohawk-six, all Fox units, standby to execute Plan Delta”, the tank commander swiftly checking his rear to ensure that the withdrawal manouevre ‘Delta’ was safe.
His supporting infantry had beaten the 1st Company back, and they would slip away on the execution of his order.
“Mohawk-six, all Fox units, execute Delta.”
His surviving four Shermans reversed away, swiftly disengaging, following the plan to cross the river to the south at Kressbronner Straβe, intermixed with the handful of halftracks that bore part of the armored-infantry.
The rest of the armored-infantry force slipped into the various boats they had acquired, and quickly made the relative safety of the other bank.
Antonov recalled some of his tanks, already moving off to the south, intent on pursuing the withdrawing US armour.
“Drook-one-zero, all units, execute Pyat, execute Pyat, concentrate on the bridge comrades, support the infantry, but we must secure that bridge.”
The Soviet force neared its objective.
“Goddamnit but that hurts.”
The position was empty, much like his BAR.
The platoon had slipped over the river in the dinghies supplied by the 305th Engineers, his own dinghy ripped to shreds by shrapnel from the same shell that had killed his two men and removed his left foot.
Ramming home his last magazine, the Master Sergeant slid away from the water’s edge, propping himself up against a shattered tree trunk, and slipping a lucky strike into his mouth.
As he lit it, he heard the rush of footsteps as three enemy soldiers rushed forward and threw themselves down behind the wall of ammo boxes at the back, unaware of his presence.
The heavy BAR hammered out and the three lost interest in anything but the pain of their hideous wounds.
Another sound filled his ears, taking precedence over the screams of the three wounded men.
‘Oh shit!’
It was a tank, and it was coming his way.
Antonov pushed himself hard, all the time aware that his men were bleeding, all the time believing the bridge to be more precious with every extra drop of spilt Soviet blood.
“Driver, halt.”
The tank swayed even though the tracks had stopped turning.
“I have him in my sights, Comrade Podpolkovnik!”
The gunner’s voice betrayed his fears, but the man had stuck to his task thus far, and Antonov knew he would not fail him.
“Fire!”
An American tank blew up, his shell bludgeoning through the frontal armour and into the bodies beyond.
“Excellent Comrades! Driver, forward!”
A hideous metallic clang robbed him of his hearing, the smell of burning and spent explosive informing him that his tank had been badly hit.
The IS-II was still moving forward, the dead driver’s hands on the controls, the gradual right turn taking the heavy tank away from the water, further exposing its side to the enemy across the river.
Mearns saw it coming and dragged himself out of its path, his leg leaving a bloody smear behind him.
Another two Soviet infantrymen dropped inside the hollow.
This time, the American was spotted.
The BAR was slow to deploy, and one of the Russians got a shot off with his rifle as the Master Sergeant sent them both to hell.
The impact of the bullet knocked the breath out of Mearns, punching into his right breast and out his back in a millisecond.
The pain followed quickly.
He discharged his final round as his body surrendered to the wounds. In its weakened state, it refused point-blank to hold the Browning any longer.
He coughed violently, sending gobbets of blood over the earth around him.
‘Goddamnit, if the bastards haven’t done for me!’
Two of the three wounded Soviet soldiers had either died or lapsed into unconsciousness. The third lay immobile, looking straight at Mearns, his eyes full of hate for his killer, but also laced with triumph that his killer would not long survive him.
In the IS-II, still moving slowly forward, Antonov started to feel the pain of his stomach wound. Deeply sliced by a whirling piece of hinge, mashed from the driver’s hatch and transformed into a flying razor.
The tank lurched, sending the dazed gunner cannoning into him.
Antonov screamed, his wound split and permitted some of his entrails to escape.
Within seconds, he was alone with the dead driver, the other two tankers scrabbling up and out of the vehicle.
Across the river, soldiers from H Company, already enraged by the wounding of their NCO, and their inability to get back over the water to help him, discharged their angst with violence, pouring heavy fire into the two crewmen.