by Colin Gee
Colonel Pavelkhin, commander of the 164th Tank Brigade and de facto commander of the attack force, exchanged glances with his fellow commander, Colonel Maslov of the 15th Motorised.
Both men were bristling with indignation.
“Because your orders clearly stated not to advance until the air attack was complete, Comrade Mayor General.”
“It’s complete... it was complete some time ago... and yet you move out as slow as can be long after our aviators have left the scene. Why’s that? Why is that?”
“There was no warning that the attack had finished, Comrade Mayor General. Your order specifically stated an attack by three regiments... three regiments...”
Pavelkhin forced himself back from the abyss his anger was sending him towards.
“There has only been a two regiment attack so far, Comrade Mayor General.”
Trufanov, commander of 16th Tank Corps, sent spittle flying in all directions as he ranted.
“Any fucking idiot could see the flyers have had a hard time. Any fucking idiot should have seen that and ordered his men forward immediately but not, it fucking seems, the fucking idiots that command have lumbered me with! I thought you both knew how to soldier!”
Pavelkhin, his face bearing the scars of combat with the enemy, and Maslov, whose chest bore a plethora of valour awards earned since the earliest days of 1941, stood stunned, as rebuke after rebuke washed over them, all in front of their men.
“Right, you pair of useless bastards! I’ll do it myself. You’re both relieved.”
Trufanov rattled out his instructions, sending the 164th Tank, 15th Mechanised, and 27th Guards Heavy Tank Regiment’s units back towards the centre, intent on grinding straight over the top of Lützow, regardless of cost, and also dispatched a part of the reformed 39th Guards Heavy Tank Brigade to back them up.
Satisfied with his actions, Trufanov turned and spotted the two Colonels stood to one side.
“Get out, the pair of you. You’re no use to me. Consider yourself arrested. Now… go on, get out.”
Pavelkhin and Maslov saluted smartly and turned on their heels, dreaming of shooting holes in the General as they marched away.
They sought refuge in a clump of trees, from where they could observe what came next.
Fig# 164 - Lutzow - Soviet attack.
1318 hrs, Sunday, 15th April 1946, Guards Division positions, WittenbergerStrasse, Lützow, Germany.
“Stupid... really stupid...”
Charles was speaking to himself, but the crew understood perfectly.
The enemy advance was moving straight across his position, displaying tender sides to the deadly 17pdr gun.
Charles checked the flank force, and was amazed that it still hadn’t moved forward.
A strange sound behind him brought a moment of amusement, as Corporal Barclay marshalled more men and equipment for his private army.
A 6pdr anti-tank gun was pushed into place, the men involved glowing red with the effort.
Nearby, a Vickers MG group was setting up, dragging wood into a rough wall to protect the crew from harm.
The lead elements of the Soviet force started to take fire from the village and environs, less than before admittedly, but still accurate.
Smoke and flame marked British success followed by British success, the Centurions proving equal to the task.
“Pats, steady. No firing yet, come right twelve degrees, range twelve hundred. IS-IIs, and a lot of them.”
The turret whirred as Patterson sited the gun.
“Oh bloody hell.”
Fifteen tanks, a mix of T-34s and IS-IIs from 27th Guards Heavy Tank Regiment, combined with seventeen IS-IIs and IS-IIIs from First Battalion, 39th Guards Heavy Tank Brigade, were flanking the main Soviet attack, seemingly intent on passing very close to where Lady Godiva II lay.
Charles kept his thoughts to himself this time.
“Unlike that lot, this commander seems to know his business.”
The heavy tanks were manoeuvring well, some stopping, some moving forward, one group covering the other as they alternated.
Clinging to each tank was a grape of infantry from the 39th’s SMG Company.
Charles stuck his head out and shouted at the passing Barclay.
“Corporal! Your AT gun. No use against the big buggers. Tell them to concentrate on the T-34s. You get the infantry all to yourself. Good luck.”
Barclay’s reply was lost in the whoosh of passing shells, as some of the advancing tanks engaged the likely looking hump that was the concealed Centurion.
“Are we on?”
“On.”
“FIRE!”
Godiva spat venom at the approaching mob and achieved a hit, without penetration. The infantry bailed off the tank at speed, self-preservation lending them wings.
“Target hit. Again.”
“On.”
“FIRE!”
The tank, jinking to avoid a repetition, took Patterson’s shell in the rear drive, knocking the track off and slewing the IS-II, exposing the offside.
“Side shot, Pats. Fire when on.”
Pats shouted and sent the solid shot down range.
It punched through the side armour and into the engine, bouncing back through the metal that separated the crew from all the motor paraphernalia.
Two men emerged and the IS-II was out of the fight.
There was no time for celebration, as more targets required their urgent attention.
The 6pdr claimed a kill with its first shot, the whole Soviet crew abandoning their vehicle.
Just to make sure, a second round was applied to the stationary tank, and the smoke left no doubt that it was beyond use.
Soviet artillery, called in by the commander of the 39th, started to drop to the rear of their position.
It was quickly corrected.
The Vickers and its servants simply disappeared; one moment firing at the grapes of infantry, the next a smoking hole that yielded no clues to the whereabouts of either weapon or men.
Shrapnel pattered off the Centurion’s armour, giving the tankers an idea of the hell endured by the Guardsmen outside.
“FIRE!”
Patterson placed a single shot perfectly between hull and turret, killing the IS-II and her crew in one hit.
“Shit! Target tank, left two degrees, fire when on!”
‘Jesus! It’s a three!’
The shell spanged off the turret armour in such a way that both Patterson and Charles doubted the Russians even knew they had been hit.
Another shell hit the tank in its offside, probably one of ‘B’ Squadron’s vehicles making the most of a flank shot.
The IS-III stopped dead, and black smoke blossomed from its ruptured engine compartment.
Its 122mm gun belched flame and the huge shell seemed to come straight down the line of Patterson’s sights.
The slightest of pings indicated that the lump of metal had kissed the top of the commander’s cupola.
Their unknown saviour in the village completed the job, and the Grenadier’s Bren gunner mowed the escaping four man crew down without a moment’s hesitation.
Scream from Laz Wild was immediately followed by the clang of a solid hit.
“Laz?”
Wild’s voice betrayed his fear.
“Came straight at me, that one... nearly shat meself.”
“On!”
“FIRE!”
Charles said the word automatically as his mind worked another problem.
The breech of the gun sprang back into the turret as the recoil tried to rip the 17pdr off its mounts.
“Solid kill, Sarnt-Major.”
Sneaking a quick look, the recipient of the AP shell was already brewing up dramatically.
The heat, smoke, and fumes were all building up inside Lady Godiva, despite the extractors going full blast and having the commander’s hatch open.
Sticking his head further out, Charles tried to clear his stinging eyes to take in the bigger pict
ure.
Whilst the ‘private army’ had done good work from the flank, the Soviet advance was virtually upon the defensive positions in Lützow itself and, to the east of the shattered village, already through.
‘B’ Squadron seemed to consist solely of smoking wrecks, although the numbers didn’t tally, which meant, to Charles’ reckoning, that some had made a fighting withdrawal.
Which brought him nicely to his own dilemma.
‘Stick in this position which gives us reasonable cover or move...’
CLANG!
Charles had ducked instinctively as the white blob tore across the ground towards him.
A solid shot had struck the gun mantlet, imitating Thor’s Hammer at its most violent.
It failed to penetrate and Patterson was already seeking the perpetrator.
“On!”
“FIRE!”
The Centurion rocked as it sought its revenge.
Charles returned to his mental exercise.
‘... or move and attract every shot going...’
“Infantry, close in, right side!”
Charles grabbed two grenades from the ready rack, primed one and stuck his head further out.
Three Soviet soldiers had managed to get close, avoiding Barclay’s covering force.
“Grenade!”
The Guards tank commander tossed the fizzing bomb at the small group and ducked.
The sharp crack was accompanied by screams.
A swift look confirmed all three enemy down and out of the fight, although none seemed to have been killed in the blast.
A pair of guardsmen arrived, one to cover the other, whilst the second dragged two of the wounded enemy into the small depression where the other survivor had been propelled.
Charles debated the wiseness of the act of kindness for a second, and then found other things to do.
“There’s more! Jesus! Peril, right side… quickly!”
One of the shotgun shells was loaded up and, once the turret had rotated swiftly onto the rush of infantry, discharged to impressive effect.
There was no need for a second shot, only a bag in which to put the pieces of what had been four men.
For Charles, the problems kept on coming.
Two IS-IIIs came round the edge of the wood, their distinctive shapes appearing and disappearing in the gaps between the trees.
“Target tanks, both IIIs, right eleven degrees, Load Sabot.”
Patterson moved the turret and his sights filled with the frying pan turret of an IS-III.
He dropped the gun’s elevation the smallest amount.
“On!”
“FIRE!”
The APDS round left the gun at high velocity, the sabot split open, leaving the smaller diameter tungsten core to make the short journey alone.
As one piece of the discarded alloy sabot nearly struck one of the wounded Russians, the APDS round went through the IS-IIIs lower hull as if it was made of cardboard.
The small round moved around inside the tank, bouncing off inner surfaces until its power was spent.
Inside, the major workings of the tank were reduced to scrap, and the crew resembled nothing that could be considered to bring to mind anything human.
“On!”
“FIRE!”
A second tungsten dart was launched from Lady Godiva II, and it hit, but the rearmost IS-III had moved perfectly, and the high-speed dart struck the turret side at the worst possible angle.
Charles saw the APDS round disappear into the air.
“Again!”
The massive 122mm gun swung the few inches it needed to bring the Centurion fully into view and both guns fired together.
The APDS round penetrated, but did no damage of note, as it expended itself with a perfect jam in the corner of the bulkhead, having neatly removed the commander’s right leg at the knee.
The 122mm shell did not penetrate, but it killed Lady Godiva II just the same.
Ears ringing, eyes streaming, chest tight from the extreme pressure wave, Charles tried to orient himself.
“Jesus Christ!”
He could see sunlight where no sunlight should exist. Through the modest flicker of flames, he understood what had happened.
The turret had been displaced by the force of the strike.
“Abandon tank! Get out, lads!”
He heard all the calls and pushed himself out of the cupola, suddenly aware that his left arm wasn’t pulling its weight.
Blood betrayed an injury beneath the sleeve of his overalls.
Patterson pushed himself up and out, coughing and spluttering, followed by a waft of smoke.
Bullets pinged off the armour and a scream from the front indicated that at least one had found a target.
Charles and Patterson both instinctively stopped and turned back, seeking information through the gathering smoke.
“It’s Laz... I can see the old bugger... hang on, Sarnt Major...I’ll pass ‘im down...”
Charles dropped off the side and moved forward, helping Patterson with the semi-conscious driver.
“Taken one on the napper... one in the arm, Sarnt-Major.”
Patterson rolled Wild over and into the waiting arms of his tank commander who, ignoring the sudden sharp pain, controlled Wild’s drop to the ground.
Grabbing the neck of Wild’s overalls, Charles dragged the now comatose driver away from the smoking tank.
Exhausted, he flopped down next to three guardsmen who had come forward to help.
One of them was Barclay.
“You lucky bastard, Sarnt-Major!”
A quick look back at the Centurion confirmed Barclay’s observation. The turret, looking decidedly out of shape, had moved backwards and upwards, bursting out of its ring mount.
It was a miracle that no-one had been killed.
Patterson was moving slowly, his uniform smoking, illustrating his close brush with the flames that were now clearly gaining hold in the turret area.
And then...
“Mummy! No, Mummy! Help me!”
Both Patterson and Charles turned to the tank, and were moving before they could think about what was happening.
The pleas turned to screams, turned to animal mewling sounds, turned to screams, to squeals of extreme pain, and back to calls for a mother who couldn’t help.
Roberts was still in the front of the tank.
Patterson leapt up on the vehicle with ease; Charles tried and fell off, his left arm failing him.
“Wingnut! Give me your hand!”
Patterson leant down through the smoke and into the compartment below, ignoring the surge of pain that threatened to overcome him.
“Mummy! Oh God, Mummy! It hurts! Ahhhhh!”
“Wingnut, for the love of god, grab my hand!”
The squeal from the trapped man rose to the highest possible pitch and Patterson felt his skin blister as the fire suddenly became a living thing.
“Wingnut!”
Roberts could only hear his own screeching now, and was oblivious to everything except the fire that was consuming him.
“Pats! We can’t save him! Come back, Pats!”
Patterson rolled away from the hatch and dropped to the ground, oblivious to the modest flames that were eating the sleeve of his overalls.
Charles beat the flames out with his hands and grabbed the dazed gunner, pulling him away from the burning Centurion.
Both men tumbled into the position where Barclay and his men lay, seemingly asleep, but all equally dead, killed by a mortar shell that had done its work efficiently. Only a little blood on the lips of one of Barclay’s men betrayed the possibility of any wounds in the group.
Dragging two of the Soviet soldiers wounded by Charles’ grenade, the two guardsmen rescuers arrived, panting with the effort. The third wounded man had expired, and the burning tank had made their refuge unsafe.
They then dragged all the five wounded men into cover and made off, intending to escape with their lives.
The few survivors of Barclay’s group disappeared as numerous Soviet tanks, supported by infantry, swept over the position.
An occasional wounded Guardsman received a coup de grace from a Soviet, more intent on pursuit than taking prisoners.
The battle moved on.
2020 hrs, Sunday, 15th April 1946, former Guards Division positions, WittenbergerStrasse, Lützow, Germany.
“Sarnt-Major... psst...Sarnt-Major... Pats... Pats, you fucking lump of lard... wake up... you’re alive... wake up...”
Charles was first to surface through the fog, his eyes squinting in the moonlight that now illuminated a quiet battlefield.
“Beefy?”
“One and the same, Sarnt-Major.”
Pats groaned, his renewed consciousness bringing about an unwelcome awareness of his raw hand.
Laz stared silently, almost unseeingly, his breathing heavy and pronounced.
The moon made a surge in its efforts, and Beefy turned his nose up.
“Blimey, but if you three ain’t been through the wars, ain’t you.”
Charles tried to bring himself up onto his elbows, but found a solid lump preventing him.
It was one of the Russians.
They were both dead, probably bled out from the numerous wounds caused by the grenade. Both had eyes staring off into space, calm, almost serene, but most certainly dead.
Beefy offered his hand and pulled Charles to his feet. The NCO nearly dropped straight back to the earth, but found some strength from somewhere, and fought his way upright.
Beefy nodded towards Lützow.
“The bastards are looting the village and our positions down there. I reckon won’t be long before they fetch up here, Sarnt-Major.”
Charles nodded, the moonlight providing sufficient illumination to observe the locust-like activities of the Soviet soldiery in the wake of the battle.
A shot rang out.
No one needed to ask the question; all three knew what it was, and it spurred them on.
“Right, we need to get the heck out of here. You wounded, Beefy?”
“Not a scratch...”
A roar of aero engines made the group duck instinctively as a flight of aircraft drove in hard.
