by Gee, Colin
Walshe weighed in and the two men easily extracted the badly wounded Oliphant, so much so that Haines, the man beneath, overbalanced and fell onto the turret floor.
Shaking his head to clear his vision, the Lancer Captain took in the interior of the Sherman, the only illumination coming from something indescribable that was burning slowly in the machine gunner’s position.
Stumpy Clair was still in the driver’s seat, struggling to push himself out, his broken right leg and arm hindering his efforts.
Haines took one look at Sparkle and gagged, the burning corpse destroyed by the impact of the Soviet tank shell.
That it had not exploded had granted the rest of the crew another life.
“No time for ceremony, Stumpy. Here we go.”
He grabbed the injured driver, ignoring the curses and screaming, repeating the exercise of holding the man up to the hatch.
Again, strong hands took hold of the tanker and he was pulled up and out of the turret.
Pausing only to grab the Thompson submachine gun from its position, Haines exited the Sherman and helped bring Stumpy down to ground behind the smoking M4.
The other Fusilier and Oliphant were stretched out side by side.
“They’ve both copped it, boss.”
Killer’s words cut him like a knife.
Nellie’s ears were leaking blood as well as synovial fluid. His already fractured skull had taken another pounding when the tank was hit; fatally so.
Pulling himself together quickly, Haines watched as Walshe splinted Stumpy’s leg, inflicting pain as he moved swiftly.
“How you doing, short stuff?”
Clair gritted his teeth as the young Irishman pulled tight on the bandaging.
“Ballet lessons are off, Boss.”
That drew a weary smile.
“Well, I think walking’s off for a while, Stumps.”
Leaving Walshe to look after his driver, Haines raised himself up to get a look at the battlefield.
There was next to no firing now; what there was seemed most likely to be an Italian, Irish, or British soldier firing a final shot after some retreating Russian suddenly highlighted by an explosion or a muzzle burst.
“Bloody hell! We’ve only sodding held ‘em again!”
Jubilation was quickly displaced by duty and Haines swung himself up onto the tank, leaning into the turret to make an assessment.
“Killer, grab an extinguisher and put this fire out. It’s going nowhere.”
There were things left unsaid in that order.
Fiddling with the radio, Haines got through to the headquarters first try.
“Firenze Dieci from Cassino Six, enemy attack halted. They have withdrawn. Your orders, over.”
Pappalardo did not hestitate.
“Move now, Cassino Six, move now. I will alert yje artillery,” he accompanied the words with a finger pointed straight at the Artillery Liaison officer, already briefed as to the task for his guns, “Get your command over the bridge and reform your line, over.”
The Sexton artillery crews, almost out on their feet, redoubled their efforts and put down an accurate and constant barrage, turning the No Man’s land in front of ‘Edward’ into an area in which life could not thrive.
Haines completed sending his orders to the force clinging to ‘Edward’, and then paid attention to his own survival.
It was Stumpy who pointed out that the tank had only stalled and was probably mechanically sound.
The possibility could not be ignored, although either Haines or Killer would have to point the Sherman.
Biffo slid into the driver’s seat, patently ignoring the awfulness to his right, still smoking, although no longer lazily burning.
The ‘Bus’ started first time and he slid the reverse gear in, slowly dropping the tank back into a depression.
He then exchanged places with Killer, leaving the loader to do the best with the controls whilst he and Walshe manned the turret.
Stumpy was tied in place on the engine grilles and anaesthetised with copious amounts of Korn.
Haines quickly showed the Irish infantryman how to poke a shell into the gun, all the time hoping it would not be necessary. In any case, one of their last remaining HVAP shells lay sealed in the breech.
‘Biffo’s Bus’ was the last Allied vehicle to quit the ‘Edward’ defensive line.
1833 hrs, Thursday, 28th November 1945, Route 83, west of Arnoldstein, Austria.
The withdrawal of Haines’ defence force had been completed swiftly and without drama, save some spectacular strike by the Sextons, the huge fireball illuminating the white countryside for kilometres in all directions.
For the former defenders of Nötsch, things were different.
Again, Massala and his surviving men had quit their positions, reversing away, leaving behind the 2nd Battalion of Folgore and the remnants of ‘Robin’ to stem the flow from the west.
By the time that Lastanza had got his unit back to the bridge, the tanks of ‘Robin’ had been destroyed or overrun, the Archer SP’s had been destroyed, and all he had to his name were a few mortar men and a comparative handful of his battalion.
Pappalardo had directed that Lastanza should wheel his force back westwards and block the approach from Nötsch. Even had the savaged battalion been able to get there, they would have been swept aside by advancing Soviet units as Kozlov pushed his main force along the southern side of the river, in an attempt to catch the rear of the Allied position.
He succeeded.
Pappalardo, his headquarters now relocated to the junction of Pessendellach and Oberthörl, found his command group in the way of the Soviet advance.
The remnants of Lastanza’s and Haines’ forces pushed as hard as they could, anxious to make the Italian border.
The radio crackled, informing the survivors of Ambrose Force of the assault on the headquarters.
One company of Folgore’s 3rd Battalion thrashed its vehicles to get there in time.
The surviving Challenger, damaged, yet still defiant, decided to follow on too.
The Sexton barrage was falling away for no other reason than the total exhaustion of the crews, but they persevered and, in their superhuman efforts, aided in the destruction of the survivors of Ambrose Force. The evening was illuminated by the HE bursts and Kozlov’s force, more specifically, the Artillery Officer attached to the assault force, could easily see the surviving vehicles of the Lancers and their infantry support falling back.
The reduced Soviet artillery and mortar units brought a concentrated fire down, killing many men and knocking out much of the surviving equipment.
The Headquarters had been overrun before the Folgore relief company could arrive.
Pappalardo tried to ease his body slightly, but only succeeded in increasing the pain over his tolerance threshold.
One grenade had virtually taken his left arm off at the elbow, the bloodied limb occasionally tweaked as the stump moved and the remaining sinew moved with it, much like a worm on a fishing line.
A piece of stone had been thrown up and that was proudly protruding from his chin, embedded in the flesh and bone.
The blast had thrown him some distance and he had landed on a typewriter with such force that it ruptured his liver and broke three ribs. He had bounced and come to rest in a perfect sitting position, propped by a stand of four ammo boxes.
Strangely, he had not lost consciousness, although he wished he had. He watched on as his men, both British and Italian, were all killed or wounded around him.
His aide, the Major, took a bullet in the throat and dropped to the earth clutching the fatal wound. He was dispatched with a savage kick to the same area by a Soviet soldier young enough to be the Major’s son.
The British Artillery officer was hammered to the ground and beaten mercilessly. Pappalardo could only watch the man suffer as his face and upper body swelled up and blood leaked from a dozen wounds.
One of the blows had exposed part of the man�
�s brain, obviously causing serious damage.
For the few minutes the Englishman clung to life, his cries that of an infant scared by a shadow and needing his mother.
Pappalardo wished him quickly dead.
One of the headquarters NCO’s, a corporal, had obviously killed at least one of the attackers and he was given special treatment, a sharpened spade ending his life, its recovery from his skull taking the strength of two men and causing more ignominy to the corpse.
The last British Challenger had success, its 17pdr gun knocked out two T34’s in short order.
The Soviet infantry swept over it quickly. Two grenades down the open hatch were followed by a full magazine from a PPSh, filling the interior with a host of angry insects, many of which found homes in already dead flesh.
The relief company, caught on the move, suffered badly at first, but found a position to defend and screamed for help. Artillery would have helped but the sole link with the Sextons was mewling his last seconds away, his radio equipment shattered, along with his skull.
Fig#86 – Death from the West, Gail River Valley, 28th November 1945.
Arnoldstein was lost and its defenders desperately scrabbled for the safety offered by the Italian border.
Kozlov again switched the focus of his assault, directing a tank company of the 62nd, with squads of his own infantry hanging on for dear life, down a side route with orders to reach the river.
To the north, the Soviet main force, hampered by a lack of bridging equipment, had halted at the river. Encouraged by their seniors, units resorted to swimming across the river, leaving heavy weapons and much of their kit behind them.
It was a gamble, but it paid off, as the Red Army soldiers maintained the pressure on the retreating units.
They herded Ambrose force, driving them onto the waiting tanks of the 62nd Tank Brigade and soldiers of the 28th Rifle Regiment.
A single Churchill VII rattled southwards, intent on escape at all costs and without regard for its comrades.
A full-blown collision with a Folgore motorcyclist caused consternation amongst the struggling soldiers, the 741cc Bianchi disappearing under the offside track, along with the leg of the unfortunate rider.
However, the Churchill did not stop, rattling at its top speed down the Unterthörl on its way to safety.
Seven tank shells struck the vehicle within half a second of each other, those that hit the front were repulsed by 152mm of armour, those that targeted the side sliced through weaker metal to explode inside the tank.
The Sergeant in the cupola was expelled by the force of the internal explosion, his burning body describing some kind of perverse rainbow in the sky as it fell to ground next to the railway line.
Furious Italian infantrymen, until that moment chasing the tank, fell in a storm of bullets as the Soviet blocking force announced its presence.
Demoralised, Ambrose Force tried to gather itself for an attack, but the attempt to break through was half-hearted and surrender became more of the norm as hopelessness and a wish to survive replaced duty and the mirage of safety across the border.
Some die-hards made alternative decisions, often those who had already had experience of life in as a prisoner of war. Such displays of resistance were dealt with quickly and harshly as the Soviet infantry rushed forward to take prisoners and, of course, remove anything of value from their enemies.
Pappalardo was indignant.
Silently indignant, as he could do nothing, his wounds too severe and his strength long departed.
He used his eyes, as best he could, to transfer his contempt to the Soviet soldier who was ripping off his medals and rifling his pockets.
The Russian’s eyes fell upon the fine leather holster and he knocked Pappalardo’s protective arm aside to get at its contents.
Proudly brandishing a well-worn Beretta M1934, the infantryman was satisfied that he had taken all there was to take.
Pappalardo watched on in silence as his beloved Beretta disappeared into the man’s bread bag, along with his other possessions.
He tried to move, to remonstrate, to prevent, but the act brought on excruciating pain, the like of which he had never known before and he finally dropped into merciful unconsciousness.
1959 hrs, Thursday, 28th November 1945, on the bank of the Gailitz River, 500 metres from the Italian border, Austria.
Not for the first time that day, Haines was livid.
‘Biffo’s bus’ had been drawn up in a concealed position so that he could dismount and make a plan.
His binoculars betrayed the full extent of the tragedy of Ambrose Force. The white sub-light of the snow was aided by a modest moon, and both were bolstered by buildings and vehicles burning steadily.
What struck Haines most was the silence that had now descended, only broken by the occasional shot or explosion of a vehicle surrendering to the flames.
There was nothing he could do but look after himself and the few men that had gravitated towards one of the few running Allied tanks.
Whilst he was deciding on how to proceed, the Sherman made its own decision and broke down
A moment of throaty metal graunching was quickly followed by more terminal sounds as the engine seized, its life-giving oil eventually having leaked away unnoticed.
Fig#87 - The end, Gail River Valley, 28th November 1945.
.
Killer emerged from the driver’s hatch and announced his verdict.
“She’s fucked, Biffo. Won’t even turn over now. Engine’s seized.”
“Great.”
Which, clearly, it wasn’t.
With some sadness, Haines cast his eye at the tank that had been their home and had seen them safely through half of the Italian campaign and the start of this latest abomination, but his eye was caught by an Italian soldier waving to his comrades.
He followed the man’s gestures all the way to the riverbank.
‘A boat!’
Haines took a moment, turning back to survey the ongoing surrender, weighing his alternatives and making a decision.
Sliding back down the slope, he gestured at the new-found hope.
Grabbing the young Lance Corporal’s shoulder, he issued a quick instruction.
“Walshy, nip down to that boat and gimme the nod if it’s watertight.”
He spared a look around at the rest of his motley crew.
“Make sure the eyeties don’t do a runner with it, ok?”
“Sir.”
Something in the young soldier’s eyes made Haines add a note of warning.
“Don’t shoot any of them, ok? Just make sure they don’t do a runner with the bugger.”
“Sir.”
Haines looked at the back of the departing Inniskilling and understood.
‘Boy to killer, courtesy of the bloody school of war.’
He returned to the immediate needs of his men and a simple hand gesture brought the Italian Lieutenant to his side.
“If that boat’s up to the job, we’re all getting in it and heading up river... quietly and with no fuss. I need you to find things we can use as oars, anything that’ll shift water, ok? Understand?”
The Italian officer did not bother to tell Haines that he had studied at Cambridge so understood him perfectly, he just acknowledged and got on with the job.
Killer sidled up to his commander and sought silent permission to light a cigarette.
“Makes you wonder, dun it boss.”
Haines knew exactly what his loader was on about.
“The Eyeties’ve done well today. Some bloody hard fightin’ men there, eh? Why didn’t they do it up the blue, eh?”
“Beats me, Killer... but thank fuck they were up to it today... or we’d all be dead... and that’s a fact.”
His statement was accompanied by a smile as the young Irish Fusilier gave him the thumbs up from the river bank.
“Ok, Killer, we’re leaving. Organise Stumpy and get him in the middle of the boat. I’m going to make sure the bus
won’t be of any use to the bastards.”
Killer remonstrated immediately.
“Hang on boss. You can’t do that. It’ll bring the Reds down on us like a ton of bricks.”
Haines slapped the loader’s shoulder, part in annoyance that his man should think him that stupid.
“Give me some sodding credit, Killer! Now, get Stumpy away.”
With the help of three of the Italians, Stumpy was carried gently to the boat, a fully intact and larger than it looked rowing boat.
Haines slipped inside the turret, having first placed a can of petrol on the top.
Opening the breech, he slipped the unfired HVAP round out and placed it on the floor, replacing it with an HE round that he only partially inserted into the weapon. He then added a few more HE rounds to the pile on the floor and slipped a pair of primed grenades into the pile.
Killer returned and stuck his head in through the turret hatch.
“We’re ready to go boss. The Eyeties are very keen. You ready?”
“Soon. How we off for rowing stuff?”
“There’s four oars and the infantry have scared up some planks.”
“Take my Thompson, grab the shovel off the bus, and get that boat moving. I’ll be quick as I can and I’ll swim out to you... but what I’m doing probably won’t buy us too much time.”
“Ok, boss. Just hurry up.”
Alone again, Haines paused to pay one last moment of respect to the remains of Sparkle before he exited the tank.
He dipped the ties he had salvaged in the petrol can, tying them together to make something long enough to hang inside to the floor and have enough left to tie to the MG pintel.
Fishing in his pocket, he extracted three Woodbines from his pack and pushed them together, making one long cigarette.
The contents of the fuel can were then added to the interior, although the Lancer was very careful not to disturb the lethal pile in the middle of the floor.
