by Colin Gee
Down the route he intended to drive, there was nothing of note… no clue as to the presence of death hiding in the mud.
An explosion from the left drew his attention and he hunched low against the Chaffee automatically.
Another explosion followed in quick succession and he quickly realised that the weird sound that had been bothering his ears was a flail tank about its business, the mine-destroying tank’s chains rotating and beating a path through the minefield.
More mines were set off and a mine explosion detached one of the chains, sending it flying towards a group of engineers, who wisely scattered in all directions.
Behind the flail tank, the tanks of 1st Regiment were ready to push up, once the light tank troop gave the all clear.
On the extreme left of the advance, one of the troop’s Chaffees fireballed, struck by some sort of infantry anti-tank weapon.
The supporting infantry quickly deployed and put in an assault on the ridgeline position from where the smoke trail had emanated. One of the soldiers hit the ground hard, put down by an SKS rifle, before his vengeful comrades overran and seized the position without consideration for the taking of prisoners.
There was more firing now as the northern side came under pressure, its exposed flank under fire from anti-tank guns hidden amongst the roots and fallen trunks of the once proud forest.
A Chaffee pulled in behind his own and the commander brought the .50cal round, ready to pour fire into anything ahead.
Czernin waved to his fellow NCO, climbed back on board against regulations, scaling the side of the vehicle for speed, and ordered his tank forward slowly.
More than one of the crew took a look at the sandbags that lined the floor of their vehicle, also imagining the extra sheet of steel that their vehicle had stand-off-welded to the underside of their vehicle, testament to Czernin’s utter hatred of the mine.
Still they were not reassured, but they drove on anyway.
The occasional AP mine detonated, but it quickly became clear that there was nothing that would stop the light tank from crossing to the other side of the dip.
As his tank started to gain the far slope, Czernin ordered another halt and again debussed, stopping only to place two more zone markers out before he scuttled to the top of the rise and looked for what lay ahead.
His eyes were greeted with a charnel house of blood and bodies, the detritus of scores of men ground up by the Polish artillery bombardment.
Czernin couldn’t imagine what had possessed the Soviets to move up, back or sideways under such an intense bombardment, but clearly something had flushed them out into the open and they had paid a heavy price.
Occasionally, something moved amongst the carnage, but such movement was rare, the vast majority of the butcher’s work having been fatal by nature.
Looking behind him, he pumped his fist and the other Chaffee surged forward, following on through the safe corridor with no problems.
At just over eighteen tons, the Chaffee was outweighed by most AFVs on the modern battlefield, but its weight proved sufficient to cause further indignities to the dead and dying Russians that filled the dip.
Czernin winced more than once as a piteous scream was swiftly silenced by an unforgiving track.
Off to the right, the defenders that had bolted previously decided to move further back and broke cover, the old wooden pen having hidden them totally from sight.
The lead Chaffee’s turret rotated leisurely and mowed them down, leaving one silent and two screaming for mothers they had little chance of seeing again.
Czernin returned to his tank and ordered a forward move, only to discover that the tank was ‘playing up’ and that Driver Scorupco needed to nurse the machine’s steering.
The shouting in Czernin’s ear almost deafened him, as the lead tank called for reinforcements.
Behind him, the vehicles waiting accelerated forward and swept past Czernin’s lame duck, responding to the call to get forward and join in the shooting party.
The Soviet commander had panicked and ordered his anti-tank guns back to their second position for fear of them being overrun.
Whilst he was correct in that view, his timing ensured that the guns were being hitched up and unable to fire at the precise moment the lead Chaffee came over the brow of the hill.
It was a slaughter, and as more tanks joined in, Soviet gunners raised their hands in a futile gesture of surrender.
The Poles and the Russians had a long history of enmity, and more than one man present had lost a relative in the Katyn Woods, or the Soviet backstabbing attack of 1939.
Pomorski sensed an opportunity and ordered the assault to move forward immediately, keen to strike an enemy weakened and clearly badly commanded.
Leading the 1st’s advance were Comets, and the first troop swept over the next ridge and disappeared from view.
The sharp crack of high-velocity tank weapons announced contact, and the radio messages drew more resources forward.
Czernin’s Chaffee moved as quickly as it could across the ground in between and was up and over the ridge and, to none of their liking, quickly embroiled in a sharp tank versus tank action.
“Gunner, target tank, left three… quickly man!”
The Chaffee jinked as best as it could, the steering not responding properly, but enough to make aiming difficult, even with the stabilisation unit.
Czernin read the battlefield quickly.
“Driver, in behind that burning tank…the Comet straight ahead… there… quickly.”
The Comet was lazily burning and could have exploded at any time, but he reasoned that its bulk would provide cover while he tried to not get noticed; light tanks in a medium tank battle tend to have the life expectancy of a sick mayfly.
In reality, the smoke was a better concealer than the metal of the dead tank, although it made their eyes water and sting.
“On! Fire!”
The 75mm sent a shell down range and, at the close distances the battle was being fought at, penetrated the side of the T34.
But it did not kill it.
The tank was a M44 conversion with the 100mm weapon, which would put the shell in the front and out the back of their small tank without even noticing it had hit anything.
“Again! Under the turret! Hit it under the turret!”
The black smoke emerging from their target’s engine compartment hindered his aim, but Czernin’s gunner concentrated, taking the extra half-second to make sure he was on target.
The AP shell struck home directly on the turret ring and jammed the turret in place, its barrel pointing uselessly at the area behind the Chaffee.
“Any fucking chance, Bartek?”
The gunner simply gave an affirmative-sounding hum and sent another shell into the immobilised tank.
“Impressive!”
Czernin watched as the tank simply came apart in one violent explosion, catching men halfway out of hatches.
The front plate of the tank cartwheeled away, crashing into the side of one of the Polish Comets, causing those inside to evacuate their bowels in fright.
The turret went high into the air and dropped back onto the burning wreck, before dropping off the back and coming to rest with its barrel in the air.
Despite being outnumbered, the Comets were giving a good account of themselves, using standard AP in the main, conserving the new HESH, which were still not so readily available as to be used on anything but the big boys.
As one, the surviving T34s turned for the ridge behind them and all but one made it over and down the other side before the 1st Regiment could react.
Czernin listened to his new orders and consulted the map.
Pomorski had decided to combine the Light Tank Troop, the headquarters tank troop, and a handful of engineers and infantry, and send them off to the right to circumvent the positions ahead, a plan that had been discussed, should it become necessary.
The main weight of the tank squadron and Highland infantry
struck straight down Route 132 and saw immediate results as the enemy started to melt away in front of them.
Czernin’s troop led the way, using speed to circumvent the enemy’s main force, only stopping occasionally to direct one of the Centurion’s from the HQ troop onto a hidden target.
Five Centurion IIs backed up the light force, the idea being that they could establish themselves on an area of raised ground named the Old Man’s Nose, which oversaw Routes 180 and 2507 and controlled them from the elevated position, with the Chaffees and infantry providing a security force to keep any would-be heroes at bay.
0729 hrs, Tuesday, 25th March 1947, 1197th Rifle Regiment’s command post, Seirijai, Lithuania.
Lieutenant Colonel Zvorykin listened impassively as the details of the destruction of his forward units were laid bare.
His regiment, a regiment in name only, was being overrun by the damned Poles, and even his tank support was running from the field after receiving a sound drubbing.
The moment he understood the position, he had shouted for assistance from his superior, who had made all the right noises about sending support, coupled with threats should his unit give ground.
‘We’re long past that, you fucking moron!’
He thought it, so wanted to shout it down the telephone, but said nothing but the words expected of him as he started to organise a fighting withdrawal of his surviving units, bringing them back to a line on Routes 180 and 181, but centring the defence on Seirijai to protect the vital junction.
The division’s temporary allocation to 10th Guards Army was clearly a poisoned chalice, not the attachment to an elite formation as it had seemed at first.
He imagined the Guards formation not worrying about his ‘second-class’ soldiers, and allowing them to bleed whilst they sorted their own affairs.
Zvorykin had lost all of his enthusiasm for war, and much of his faith in his fellow man since the heady days of Tostedtland and the drive into Northern Europe.
The arrival of one of the new BTR-152s drew his attention.
It slithered to a halt in a wave of mud and water, and out leapt a mud-splattered and bloodied officer of mechanised troops, who was clearly a man on a mission.
He returned the Captain’s salute, keen to hear what the Guards officer had to say.
“Polkovnik Zvorykin?”
“I am.”
“Kapitan Nazarbayev, 9th Guards. We’ve been trying to reach you but the radios…”
The jamming had been extremely successful, making telephone the only means of communication in Zvorykin’s headquarters, when lines hadn’t been cut by artillery or, in one instance, by the actions of his own tank support.
Zvorykin nodded and moved to the map table.
“Talk to me, Comrade Kapitan.”
“Sir, my battalion is a mile or two behind me here…” he indicated the road to Linksmoji, “…on Route 132. We’re to be your direct support to hold Seirijai. I’ve two platoons of tanks, a company of engineers, and a company of anti-tank guns under my command too. Your orders from Leytenant General Obukov are straightforward. You must hold here, which is why I am to place my men under your command.”
Zvorykin nodded his understanding.
“A full battalion of men?”
“Yes, Comrade Polkovnik. Three full companies, my own headquarters, plus a submachine company, I’ve already instructed the SMG boys to deploy immediately to here. I considered them more suited for the defence of this place.”
“Good… good… right… no time to lose.”
The colonel looked over the positions and made his decision.
“I want your anti-tank units along here… what sort of guns?
“85mm D-44s, one platoon of 100mms, plus a tank-hunter group with the latest RPG-2.”
“Excellent. Deploy the 100s east along Route 180… up to the lake. There are positions already created there… a number of my own guns have already been knocked out so there’ll be plenty of room.”
His pencil made the notations.
“Here, arrange your 85s… keep a platoon undeployed… around here… Gervėnai.”
Yuri Nazarbayev made his own notes.
“I agree with the deployment of your SMG company… we’ll strengthen the front and the right flank… here and … here.”
Zvorykin thought for a moment.
“Tank hunter group into the town. One SMG platoon to be held in reserve… plus your own headquarters units... right here. I’ll organise a field telephone to them.”
He drew Nazarbayev down to the map with his gaze.
“I need to counter-attack here.”
He used his pencil to circle the modest hillock that oversaw Routes 132, 180, 2512, and 2507.
‘Senis Nosis.’
“It’s a vital point… and whoever controls it holds the town and the whole area in the palm of their hand. Tanks and mechanised infantry assault displaced my own force… far too easily… there are only a few of the bastards up there and I want them shifted back off before they reinforce. I’ve some mortars for support, but my rocket barrage unit has been dispersed by enemy counter-battery fire. No contact with any artillery, I’m afraid to say, Comrade Kapitan. We hold here.”
A jumble of names and numbers indicated Zvorykin’s forward positions.
“The shitty Poles are also to the south, and my men are falling back there too.”
Nazarbayev understood the Colonel’s dilemma perfectly. The height in question was raised enough to dominate the routes in and out of Seirijai.
“I’ll lead the attack myself, Comrade Polkovnik. One full company… plus a platoon of tanks and the engineers. I’ll take a signals group to lay a line so we can communicate. What can you give me?”
“Three platoons of infantry… also I can add a machine-gun platoon.”
“I’ll attack with my boys first. I’ll bring your men up later to hold the hill while I redeploy to form your mobile reserve. Satisfactory, Comrade Polkovnik?”
“Excellent, Comrade Kapitan… Nazarbayev, you say. Any relation to…”
“No, Comrade Polkovnik.”
“Fine… it’s now seven-thirty-six. Time of attack?”
Nazarbayev considered everything he had to do, and knew his men would carry out their orders swiftly.
“0815, Comrade Polkovnik?”
“Excellent.”
Things became even better as the signals officer announced that contact had been re-established with both Katyusha units.
0750 hrs, Tuesday, 25th March 1947, Old Man’s Nose, Route 2507, 500 metres southwest of Seirijai, Lithuania.
Czernin watched as the badly burned men were loaded onto one of the jeeps.
They were a pitiful sight and their cries of pain and suffering were almost too much to bear.
One moment the Centurion had been lazily picking off targets to the southeast, the next moment fire was licking out of the cupola as burning men pushed themselves out of the furnace and into the morning’s light.
Whatever it was had been an accident; it certainly hadn’t been enemy action.
One of the piteous casualties would know and be able to tell, unless it was the fault of the man who still remained in the burning tank, long since past help and meaningful rescue.
The remaining four tanks were conserving their ammunition, although a supply truck was rumoured to be on its way.
Czernin’s Chaffees were concealed towards the rear of Old Man’s Nose, ready to rush forward if needed.
Men of the Highland infantry were concealed, some in shell holes, others in former Soviet positions, near enough to watch over the Centurions in case the enemy grew bold and stalked them down.
The engineers took over the Soviet headquarters bunker that had cost them four men to overrun during the swift attack on the height.
The assault had seen Czernin’s light tanks and the mounted engineers and infantry wash over the defensive positions at lightning speed, and the majority of the defenders retreated as fast as
their legs could carry them.
It was only at the small headquarters that any real resistance was met, and the four dead engineers and disabled halftrack served as testament to the short but bitter fight.
Fig # 237 - Old Man’s Nose, Seirijai, Lithuania.
The headquarters now also served as an aid post, where another four engineers were tended by an overworked medic.
Major Visnevski, the commander of the Highland Battalion’s A Company, had accompanied his part-company and assumed command of the hill’s defence.
Having organised evacuation for the wounded and resupply for all units, he called an orders group together to discuss defence of the vital height.
The engineer unit was represented by an aging sergeant, their officer amongst the wounded.
A captain commanded the tanks and Czernin was now senior amongst the light tank troop commanders present.
Visnevski used a hand drawn diagram of the hill to support the main map, part of which bore the blood of his orderly, who also lay close by, being tended by the solitary medic.
“The tanks are already arranged on the leading slope, with infantry in support… here… here… here… and here… the engineers are holding the area round the bunker here… you…,” Czernin suddenly realised he was the focus of the Major’s words, “I need your tanks moved to here and here… two in each place… ready to push forward and support the infantry if the enemy gets numbers forward. Your fifth tank will place itself… err… here, with my reserve infantry section. That’ll be yourself, Sergeant Major. If there’s a gap, you and the infantry will plug it… understood?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good. I’m assured we’ll get an artillery FOO here very soon. Until then we’ve the normal channels for artillery… and purple for any air assets that come our way. Any questions?”
“Ammunition, Sir?”
“Still on its way as previously stated. No further news. Experience tells me we need to conserve but if you’ve a target, put it down… tank or rifle… put the bastard down. Clear?”
