by Colin Gee
Bagramyan beckon his CoS closer.
“Contact Gnidin... ask for a situation report please, Comrade.”
Kurasov summoned a runner and wrote a swift message.
The man disappeared at speed, watched by his pensive commander.
“Shall we, Comrade?”
Bagramyan strode off after the message holder with his CoS in step behind.
Waving down the men who stood to attention as he entered the communications centre, he listened to part of the exchange.
Kurasov moved in closer, and the operator felt perturbed by his presence.
He placed a steadying hand on her shoulder as he watched the words appear on a message form, her hand trembling slightly as she wrote.
“Confirm... ask him to confirm immediately and contact us back immediately.”
“Yes, Comrade Polkovnik General.”
Kurasov moved back to Bagramyan’s side and spoke out of the corner of his mouth.
“It appears the circumstances now exists, Comrade Marshal. I have taken the liberty of getting a confirmation.”
Bagramyan nodded in satisfaction.
Kurasov knew his methods well, and acted instinctively, as his commander would wish.
Six minutes dragged by, but eventually the message came through from Major General Gnidin.
‘No contact with enemy forces on my line. Confirmed as of 1222 hrs.”
135th Rifle Corps, Gnidin’s command, sat policing a west-east position between the Schaalsee and Schwerin.
The British had moved passed him, failed by their lack of knowledge, intent on driving towards their Polish allies.
Bagramyan had gambled that they would do so, and placed 2nd Tank Army and 5th Motorised Army in a position to cut through to the Baltic Sea, stopping the British drive and denying relief to the embattled Poles.
A sudden silence had fallen upon the communications room, the occupants, without exception, focussed on their commander.
The Armenian Marshal nodded to his CoS.
“Now, Vladimir Vasilevich, execute the attack now.”
1312 hrs, Sunday, 15th April 1946, Guards Division positions, WittenbergerStrasse, Lützow, Germany.
Whilst other men stood watch, the crew of Lady Godiva II stood down for a treat. Their tank was concealed in a hasty scrape in the ground, made large enough to house a crew rest station, and extra space for their guests. All was concealed by a net that had already proved to keep some heat in, as well as protect from air observation.
The whole squadron was positioned on the raised ground in front of Lützow, arranged to defend against attack from the south or south-east.
Fig# 161 - Lützow - Allied Forces.
The experienced tank crew had returned their Mark I tank to workshops, and a new Mk II had been issued, something that gave the men mixed feelings, although the extra refinements and thicker armour were most welcome.
But for now, more earthly matters filled their minds.
“Bloody marvellous, Laz... no really... bloody marvellous!”
The words were punctuated by regular spoonfuls and the wiping away of delicious juices.
The crew of the Centurion were downing the finest food they had tasted for some time, courtesy of relieved local German residents and the culinary prowess of their driver, Lazarus Wild.
Fig# 162 - Lutzow - Allied dispositions.
Pork and apple, with potatoes and gravy, backed up with a sweet pastry concoction prepared by the farmer’s wife, topped off with a bottle of Becks each, just to wash it all down nicely.
Herr Förster, his wife, and their three children, having no English, could only moan in satisfaction as the delicious pork disappeared at speed.
Laz Wild, beaming with satisfaction, went to the cooking pot and lifted the heavy weight.
“More, Frau Förster?”
The slender woman took a second full portion without a word.
Wild saw his crew exchange envious looks.
“Quit yer possitin now, lads. There’s plenny for all.”
Herr Forster and the children also received extra portions.
The children were sat on the tank’s fender, legs dangling down, the war a million miles away and beyond thought.
The British tank crew laughed.
The family Förster laughed.
Life was good...
A sentry’s warning...
Godiva’s crew suddenly alert...
A distant heavy crack…
The passage of a tank shell...
Screams... the screams of those who are witnessing true horror...
The tank shell had missed the Centurion, passing down her nearside at a height of about one foot above the fender, casting aside the slight resistance offered by the Förster children’s bodies.
Blood and pieces swept through the air, and no-one was spared the awful distribution.
Frau Förster had stopped screaming and now lay unconscious on the cold earth.
Herr Förster was emitting a low animal sound, as he rummaged through the awfulness in vain, seeking something that he could hold and mourn.
Wild and Patterson moved forward, not to the children, but to the parents, knowing where they could best help.
Charles stuck his head over the earthen edge and saw the legions of the enemy approaching .
“Enemy to front! Man the tank!”
Wild and Patterson looked at him like he was a mad man.
“Man the tank!”
“But...”
Charles took a step forward and grabbed Patterson’s shoulder, the blood splattered over his face making him seem to be ‘not of this world’.
“Pats, there’s nothing we can do for them, any of them. Now, let’s avenge them. C’mon man, move!”
Wild stood up.
“She’s gone, Sarnt-Major, just gone.”
The wife and mother had simply expired on the spot.
“Mount up, Laz, c’mon now. We’re going to make the bastards pay, so come on!”
The two moved forward, passing the farmer who seemed to have recovered something worth cradling.
Patterson and Beefy were already working on the netting, whilst Roberts, the radio operator, contributed his own warning to the contact reports filling the radio net.
Tossing the last of the net aside, the rest of the crew dropped inside and brought the Centurion up to readiness.
Charles was spoilt for choice when it came to targets.
“Gunner, target tank, range 1300, dead ahead.”
“Searching.”
Charles ducked inside the tank in response to a tugging on his trouser leg.
Roberts shouted above the noise of battle.
“My intercom’s fucked, Sarnt Major. Radio’s full of contact reports. Squadron orders are to hold.”
Charles nodded.
“Rightho, wingnut. Get your intercom sorted.”
“On!”
Charles leant back and gave the order.
The 17pdr sent a shell towards the force that had caught them on the hop.
Fig# 163 - Lützow - Soviet Forces.
The shot struck the IS-II’s offside track, sending it running off the wheels like a dying snake.
“Again!”
Enemy artillery now started to drop on the British positions, previously kept quiet to mask the stealthy approach of a tank-heavy formation intent on smashing through to the coast.
Everything from 76mm to 203mm rained down, and some found targets amongst the tanks and vehicles of the 1st and 2nd Battalions Grenadier Guards, recuperating on the British flank.
And then the Katyushas arrived, the rockets streaming down in huge numbers, as the 1st Guards Mortar Brigade applied itself to the task.
One rocket landed close to Lady Godiva II, and administered mercy to the mad Herr Förster, stopping his suicidal attempts to dash his head in on the Centurion’s wheels.
Charles, caught between fighting his tank and trying to establish the tactical situation, remained su
rprisingly calm, even though his attempts to raise his leadership fell on deaf ears.
The British fought back, knocking out enemy T-34s and IS-IIs, cutting down infantry, but not without loss.
The British infantry colonel was carried from the field, shattered by a bursting shell, and Guards’ officers rallied their men by example, one that often cost them their well-being.
The artillery FOO did superb work, directing available Corps artillery onto the advancing Soviet force.
The Grenadier’s tankers lost heavily, although the ratio of loss to kill was greatly in the Centurion’s favour.
It was the artillery and the IS-IIs that proved most capable against the new British tank.
Both Captain White and Lieutenant Percival were already out of the fight, the former smashed with his crew by a 122mm artillery shell that arrived through the turret top plate. The badly injured young subaltern clung to life still, the sole survivor dragged from his destroyed Centurion by brave infantrymen from the Grenadier’s Mechanised 1st Battalion.
If Charles did but know it, the opening exchanges had broken the nerve of two young replacement officers, and they and the valuable tanks they commanded were already heading to the rear at speed.
The rest of the leadership of ‘C’ Squadron were out of action, either wounded or removed from command in a more permanent way.
Which meant that the newly-frocked CSM Andrew Charles commanded what was lef....
“On!”
“Fire!”
Patterson was rapidly becoming the best gunner Charles had ever seen, bar none.
He had just put an APDS round right on the spot, causing the targeted IS-II to lose interest in proceedings.
“Pats, all yours for the while.”
That was music to Patterson’s ears.
He pressed his forehead to the sight and sought another target, a none too difficult matter in the sea of enemy vehicles and infantry approaching... not approaching....
‘What the fuck?’
Patterson did a double take.
‘What the...’
“Sarnt-Major... the bastards have stopped...”
Charles was already aware.
“Cease fire. Keep a close eye on them.”
He took a quick look at his watch.
‘1335... God... is it only twenty minutes since... since...’
He looked around and saw a number of clearly destroyed tanks in a landscape that bore no resemblance to that he had sat down in for lunch.
“Driver... move to alternate two.”
“Roger.”
The Centurion’s engine went quickly from idle to power, and the vehicle slowly edged backwards out of the scrape, heading for the second back-up position they had created when the Grenadiers had arrived the day beforehand.
A burning Centurion exploded, sending a spider’s web of smoke lines into the air and across the ground surrounding it. Its surviving crew had long evacuated.
Alternate Two was adjacent to the wood line on raised ground and Wild skilfully dropped down behind the skyline and negotiated the small distance, unobserved, and in good time.
As the Centurion was moving, Charles again tried the radio.
“Alma-Charlie-three to all Alma, report.”
By the end of the exchanges, Charles understood that he now commanded six running tanks out of twelve that had been runners before the enemy arrived.
Switching to the regimental net, the CSM made contact with Scipio-six, the Grenadier’s commanding officer.
After reporting the state of ‘C’ Squadron, Charles mainly listened, checking things off on his map, as the radio spewed instructions.
The upshot of it all was that, as ever, ‘C’ should hold their ground, along with the adjacent ‘B’ Squadron, buying time for division to establish a meaningful line to the rear. The Colonel had decided against telling Charles that another enemy attack was in progress to the west, which, if successful, would ensure that all their efforts were in vain.
Charles eased the headphones off and wiped his brow.
“We stay and hold... for at least two hours.”
The crew knew a death sentence when they heard one, but only Patterson gave voice to his opinion.
“Tell the old man, he can come and take my fucking place.”
Patterson’s comment was then echoed by the rest of the crew.
“Steady, lads. We’ve got a job to do for... “
He stuck his head out of the turret in search of the source of the growing engine sounds.
“Aircraft... our brylcreams are taking a hand!”
Relief spread through the tank, and on through the remains of ‘B’ and ‘C’ Squadrons, and finally into the mechanised infantry.
Relief faded in an instant as aircraft with red stars appeared overhead, shedding munitions that rained down upon the British positions.
Nothing of note came near Lady Godiva II, the air attack concentrated around Route 104 and the positions to the south-east of Lützow. The enemy approach came in from Renzow, permitting the Soviet aircraft to drop and then make a starboard turn, sending them back to relative safety.
“Beefy, stick your head out and keep an eye on their tanks and infantry.”
Beefy Silverside stuck his head out immediately.
Charles observed at least three of ‘B’ Squadrons tanks take fatal hits in short succession, whilst other bombs and rockets clearly claimed lives amongst the infantry.
He switched back to observing the tanks and infantry that had clearly gathered themselves to await the air strike.
More aero engines swept overhead, as a regiment of ground attack IL-10 Shturmovik followed their older sisters, venerable Il-2s.
However, the calls for assistance from the FOO and ‘B’ Squadron’s commander had not gone unheeded, and aircraft arrived bearing friendly markings.
“What the hell are they, Sarnt-Major?”
The twin-tailed aircraft wore RAF markings and had no propeller.
Charles searched his brain for the air recognition information and quickly pulled the necessary from the depths of his mind.
“Vampires... they’re the new jet... bloody Vampires.”
Ground fire stopped rising from the defensive positions, as the gunners on the Grenadier’s AA tanks realised the risk of hitting their own.
247 Squadron RAF had arrived with eighteen Vampire Mk Is. Although not the ideal aircraft for low altitude interception, they soon knocked five Il-10s out of the sky, each one of the jets mounting four Hispano Mk V cannons, whose 20mm shells tore the vitals out of the Soviet attack aircraft.
Overshooting was clearly a problem, and some Vampires swept past Shturmovik targets without having engaged.
One such failed pass ended in death for a jet pilot, as he inexplicably flew across the front of another Ilyushin, exposing himself to a quick burst that severed one of his tail planes and sent the Vampire straight into the German soil, although the disoriented pilot arrived a micro second before his upside down aircraft, as the ejector seat fired him into the cold damp earth.
The remaining Vampires set about the IL-10s with renewed vigour, attacking more from the flank, using deflection shooting to overcome the high gain speed that was a problem approaching from the rear.
The air battle moved away eastwards, as the Shturmoviks sought ground level and ran back to their own lines.
The Soviet bombardment recommenced, quickly followed by the artillery of the Guards and Corps units.
“Sarnt-Major, the buggers are on the move now.”
A quick look confirmed Beefy’s warning, but further examination revealed that the angle of their attack had changed, the village of Lützow itself now the focus, rather than the original attempt to circumvent, although some forces still manoeuvred on the flanks.
Charles made a quick decision and levered himself out of the turret.
“You’re in charge, Pats. Back in a mo. Commander out.”
He dropped to the ground, mental
ly avoiding the question of what he had just stepped in, and ran to the nearby infantry positions.
Rolling into an old shell hole, he found half a dozen determined looking guardsmen lining the rim.
“Who’s in charge, corporal?”
The dirty faced NCO looked around him.
“Guess I am, Sarnt-Major. Our Sergeant copped it, so I’m it. What you need?”
Charles moved up to the rim and lay next to the Corporal.
“Right, as I see it, the Sovs are crossing our front, although still pushing some elements up the flank.”
His finger pointed at each in turn.
“I’m going to hammer them from this flank, but I need to have my own flank secure.”
The Corporal took a quick look.
“The woods?”
“In one, Corporal.”
He grabbed his jaw.
“I’ll grab a Bren section and stick them in here. That’ll cover your front. My boys and I will tuck in on your right side there, keep any nasties that come from the woods off you. That OK, Sarnt-Major?”
Charles appreciated the man’s no-nonsense approach.
“What’s your name, Corporal?”
“Barclay, Sarnt-Major.”
“Good work, Barclay. Use our squawk box if you need anything.”
He slapped the man on the shoulder, took a brief moment to check his route, and then flung himself upwards and ran back to Lady Godiva.
1408 hrs, Sunday, 15th April 1946, 15th Motorised Rifle Brigade forward headquarters, west of Gottesgabe, Germany.
Just prior to the renewed advance of the Soviet forces, a confrontation took place at 15th Motorised’s forward headquarters.
“Why did you wait? Now they have a chance to gather themselves!”
The 16th Tank Corps was a relatively new formation, the previous having gone on to glory and Guards status; none the less, it had a leavening of experienced and competent officers to balance the inexperienced majority. One of the latter was now rounding on two of the former.
