by Gee, Colin
The Churchill rattled by, heading to a point where a small track terminated on the opposite bank.
The two AVRE’s followed suit, the three tanks creating a spear point, an armoured triangle, inexorably advancing to conquer the Zorn.
The bridge layer halted on the riverbank and quickly set its bridge in place.
Then it was hit.
The whole front of the Churchill disappeared in a deadly whiteness as a huge HE shell struck the vertical glacis, its 152mm armour plate sufficient to resist penetration, but not to deny the concussive effect of such a large explosion.
The driver and hull gunner were reduced to jelly, bones shattered by the huge blow. Both died within seconds.
In the turret, the loader was blown against the turret wall, fracturing his skull and smashing his right shoulder.
Godfrey was temporarily blinded as his sights shattered, the shock wave also dashing his head on unyielding metal, which nearly knocked him out.
Johnson broke his left wrist, and nearly trepanned himself on the inside of the cupola, peeling part of his forehead back as the metal edge did its work.
Braun slammed his fist against the wall of the Panther’s turret.
The Churchill had to move or the bridge was useless to them.
Another shell struck the wounded beast, but it was of a smaller calibre, and did not damage the tank.
The two AVRE’s pushed in on the right of the bridge and, one after the other, efficiently put their fascines into the water.
“Dora Zero One to Dora. Use the bundles to the right of the bridge. Move up now and straight over... fan out once across. One-five, watch to the north-east. Over.”
One-five, Stepanski’s tank, let two others roll over the fascines before he decided to cross.
Inside the bridge layer, Johnson struggled to decipher the messages from his brain.
He could smell explosives, fire, blood, faeces, urine, vomit and fuel, all of which told him that he needed to be elsewhere immediately.
He squealed as his broken wrist announced itself, denying him the leverage to push up through the hatch at the first attempt.
Again he tried, this time successfully, and he welcomed the fresh cold air that greeted him.
Braun spotted the movement and tried to contact the British tank, but the radio had lost the uneven struggle against the large calibre HE round, something he had suspected the moment the shell hit the Churchill.
He willed the young officer to do something.
‘Move the tank, Englander... move the fucking tank!’
There was no point in shouting, it was too far, and the noise of battle was growing as the Panthers on the other side of the bridge started to work the battlefield.
On the Churchill’s roof, Johnson cleared his head and peered back inside at is crew.
Godfrey was coming round, and the loader was also showing signs of life.
“Corporal Godfrey! Godfrey! Shape up, man! Get yourself sorted. Get ready to evacuate on my order.”
Not waiting for a reply, Johnson rolled off the turret, unaware of the unwanted attention he was now getting. The twang of bullets striking the tank’s armoured plates did not penetrate into his consciousness, so focussed was he on the task he had set himself.
Through the open hatch, he could see that his driver was beyond help. He grabbed at the corpse with his one good arm and, thankful that the man had been nigh on a starved dwarf, Johnson exerted his strength and managed to get the body partially out of the seat, and slid the body in the general direction of the hull gunner.
A bullet nicked his calf, the sting making him work harder.
Sliding down through the narrow opening, Johnson worked to push the driver out of the way.
Another huge shell landed near to the tank, rocking the Churchill, causing Johnson to bang his head. A steady stream of blood emerged from the small but deep wound caused by the prominent corner of an electrical junction box above the driver’s position.
Having made enough room for himself, he restarted the tank, praying that the engine would catch.
It did, but the plume of black smoke informed the defenders that the Churchill was once again a target.
Dropping the tank into reverse gear, Johnson grabbed the tiller bar with his good arm and started to move the vehicle away from the bridge.
‘Well done, Englander!’
“Dora Zero One to Dora. Bridge is clear, I say again, bridge is clear.”
Speaking on the intercom, he gave the order to push forward, all the time watching the Churchill.
To its right, a Panther followed closely on the heels of one of the AVRE’s, both British tanks now across the water.
Braun smiled, but his eyes took in something on the periphery.
He snatched up the radio and tried to get through, even though he knew it was useless.
“Nein, nein, get out, Johnson, the bank’s giving way, get out now!”
The last heavy shell had affected the integrity of the river bank, and it seemed that only Braun could see it as plain as day.
No one would ever know if Johnson had felt it start to go, or even if he heard Braun’s cry over the radio.
The bank slowly gave way and forty plus tons of Churchill slithered, left side first, into the water.
A man started to emerge from the turret hatch.
Something acted as a stop; possibly a submerged rock. Momentum and gravity took over and the heavy tank rolled over, coming to rest upside down in the freezing River Zorn.
The water flooded into the tank.
Godfrey, half in, half out of the turret, was mashed and virtually cut in half as the vehicle rolled into the water. He was dead before he had a chance to drown.
The loader died without regaining consciousness.
The interior light by the driver’s position stayed illuminated, even when both it and Johnson were immersed by the inrushing waters.
Abject terror seized the young tank officer, but his screams were silenced by the water that flooded into his mouth.
As the water closed over him, the light stayed bright in the icy waters, illuminating his desperate efforts to hold his breath, and then to drink the river dry.
The bulb flickered and died.
Braun’s Panther moved carefully over the engineer bridge, which was now attracting a lot of attention from Soviet artillery and mortars.
The unfortunate men strapped to the Legion vehicles had worked, up to a point, until someone in the Soviet command made a difficult decision. The change was marked by the unexpectedly spectacular end of one of Braun’s Panthers.
A large calibre shell hit the Panther on the hull glacis, transforming three of the POW’s into jam in the blink of an eye. It was followed by two more hits, this time from something smaller, but just as deadly.
The tank, its crew, the surviving prisoners, and the Legion grenadiers riding on the back, all disappeared in a huge orange and red rose, obvious pieces of all four parts of the whole travelling large distances in the explosion.
Only the running gear remained to identify where the German tank had once stood.
1620 hrs, Wednesday, 4th December 1945, Laager positions of the 1st Battalion, 412th Mechanised Brigade, one kilometre east of Brumath, Alsace.
On paper, the brand new 412th Mechanised Brigade was a reasonable formation, certainly hampered logistically by being equipped with numerous tank types, but helped by the veteran tankers and infantry that made up over 70% of its personnel.
On paper.
In reality, it was under equipped in numbers, under supplied with the basics of war, the morale of veteran and recruit alike shot to pieces and, generally, in no fit state to confront a competent enemy.
None the less, Colonel Blagoslavov received his call to arms, and started to get his ragtag unit organised for battle.
When Operation Thermopylae had finished, the remnants of a number of Soviet units were banded together and efforts began to make them fit for purpose once more
.
The old 38th Guards Tank Brigade had been struck from the army list and its personnel and some of its surviving armour had ended up under Blagoslavov’s orders as a new formation.
As part of the process of recovery, Blagoslavov’s command was temporarily attached to the 3rd Guards Cavalry Corps, which unit had also suffered grievously in the battles of November 1945.
Each of the three mechanised battalions in the 412th was under strength, but it was difficult to find any Soviet armoured unit with a full TOE in December 1945.
His 1st Battalion was where Blagoslavov concentrated the main armoured firepower and offensive strength of his fledgling command, the new restyled mechanised brigades being both a response to the Allies’ own organisation and an implementation of lessons hard-learned on the battlefield.
Eight IS-II’s, one IS-III, and five T34/85’s, supported by two full battalions of infantry, plus support units, gave the 1st presence and hitting power.
The 2nd Battalion was mainly based around six SU-100’s, supported by six T34m43’s, armed with the 76mm gun. A new infantry battalion, fresh from training, provided the manpower, supplemented by engineer and mortar companies. Short in numbers, the green soldiers made up for the lower establishment with their apparent enthusiasm.
3rd Battalion was a patchwork of anything else that came to hand, mostly Soviet armour that had seen better days, the occasional enemy vehicle, and even a brand-new Pershing tank that had been captured during the US retreat in Southern Germany.
The real strength of the 3rd lay in its infantry element. Dismounted Cossacks and Guards infantry from the slaughtered 3rd Guards Tank Corps, a total of five full companies, all high quality troops, plus good mortar and anti-tank gun support units.
The 412th also had two recon units, each of four T-70 light tanks supported by more guardsmen from the old 3rd, carried into battle in recently seized US halftracks.
An engineer company and artillery battery completed the strength of the 412th.
On paper.
Blagoslavov knew better than to believe pieces of paper.
2nd Battalion was presently virtually useless to him, half of its vehicles non-runners left behind in a field east of Hagenau, awaiting spares for both the SU-100’s and the worn out T34s.
The 2nd’s infantry component was closer to hand and, with the commencement of firing nearby, he had ordered it to halt its training and make the short journey from Weitbruch to the south.
The 1st Battalion was settled in north of the Selterbach, but not of any great use, its armour affected by mechanical problems, shortages of everything from lubricants to ammunition. A recent check with the commander probably meant that it could put three of its IS-II’s into the field, supported by a similar number of T34’s, if they scrounged ammo from the non-runners and the mechanics toiled like hero workers, which, of course, they would,.
The 3rd Battalion, with its diverse tanks and experienced infantry, was concealed in a modest gully just off Route 140, roughly one thousand five hundred metres north of Geudertheim.
On the flank of Durant’s assault force.
A line of vehicles and men came out of the growing darkness, moving slowly, but with purpose.
Stepanski was looking elsewhere on the battlefield and the call from his gunner startled him.
He looked to his front, his binoculars seeking out any details with which to identify these new targets.
He did so, at least with a few of them, but decided not to complicate his message with that sort of detail just now.
“Dora One-five, all Dora. Enemy tanks, minimum ten vehicles, and infantry in battalion strength approaching from north of Geuderheim, range seven hundred metres. Engaging!”
In the command halftrack, Durand checked his map.
In Braun’s Panther, another map received urgent attention.
Both men decided that this was trouble with a big T.
Braun acted first.
“Dora-zero-one to Dora One. All Dora one, reorient to face northeast... assume defensive positions.”
He checked the map once more before he directed instructions to the Panzer IV unit.
“Dora-zero-one to Dora Two. All Dora two, take position on river line, facing north. Engage new enemy force.”
Happy that his HQ vehicles would stay on station to support Durand’s infantry, Braun switched to the command net and briefed his superior.
His report was met with some consternation, the presence of this new force undetected and, probably much worse, unsuspected.
Fig#96 - The Soviet surprise, Brumath, 4th December 1945.
Allied intelligence had missed the 412th completely, and the Legion was about to pay the cost. A small mathematical error on the part of a young navigator from Alberta was not detected by either his squadron intel officer or RAF photo interpreters. That resulted in some six square miles of Alsace remaining unphotographed; the six square miles containing the 412th Mechanised Brigade.
“Dora-one-five to Dora-zero-one, over.”
“Go ahead, Dora-zero-one, over.”
“One-five, the enemy armour is a mixed type force. At least one American M26 and two Shermans. I see a Panther for certain. Total fourteen armoured vehicles identified at this time, over.”
Remembering to unkey the mike, Stepanski howled with delight, as his gunner sent one of the Shermans into the next world.
“Zero-one, roger. You must hold. Zero is pushing on with plan. Help’s on its way, over.
Stepanski reply was never sent, his radio disabled as a 90mm shell from the M26 wiped the side of his turret, removing one of the Soviet POWs in the process.
It had been a mighty blow, and the smell of damaged electrics filled the turret space.
Smoke then arrived from somewhere. There was no clue to its cause or whereabouts.
Stepanski switched to the intercom.
“Gunner, fire on your own authority. Crew, check for damage. There’s burning somewhere.”
The extractors were working at full pelt, but failing to make gains on the sickly smoke, the taste of which brought back horrible memories for men who had seen their friends die in burning tanks.
The loader complained that he couldn’t open the rear hatch so the spent 75mm shell case went out the cupola, closely followed by Stepanski.
“Commander out.”
Stepanski levered himself out of the turret and found the cause.
A dead grenadiere was hanging on the side of the turret, blocking the ejection hatch. The body was burning steadily.
To Stepanski’s first sight, it seemed that a phosphorous grenade had been detonated whilst still attached to the unfortunate soldier, and it was the products of the burning uniform and flesh that had been drawn inside the Panther.
Noting the live grenade still attached and already warming in the fire, Stepanski gave the corpse a shove with his boot, sending it to the ground alongside the tank.
He rapped his knuckles on the ejection hatch and immediately heard the sounds of metal clips being opened. He was nearly struck as a hot shell case sailed out in short order.
The 75mm cracked again, the recoil nearly breaking his grip on the cupola as he dropped inside the Panther again.
The 90mm M3 was a very powerful gun, more than capable of dealing with most tanks on the battlefield.
The high-velocity round struck the barrel of Stepanski’s Panther, gouged a two-foot long indentation in it, and then deflected onto the curved mantlet. It struck the gunner’s sight in millimetre perfect fashion, driving the quality optical device into the brain and then out the rear of the man’s skull, as the shell expended its energy burrowing into the armour.
It did not explode.
The end of the round stood proud of the inside of the tank by some three inches, finally held in place by the mantlet.
Its presence was noted and both men waited for death to come.
It still did not explode.
Both Stepanski and his loader were covered wit
h the blood of the dead gunner, and both found themselves unable to speak, the shock disabling both men, albeit temporarily.
Stepanski recovered first.
“Schiesse!”
He spoke quickly on the intercom.
The gunner was obviously dead.
“Gun’s fucked. Klaus is dead. I’m going to take over one of the other tanks. As soon as I’m gone,” he looked at the loader, “You take command and get the tank back to the werkstatt. Alles klar?”
The replies were standard and expected.
“Good luck, Kameraden.”
Stepanski propelled himself upwards.
“Commander out!”
Stepanski’s Panther reversed back to the river ,and he yelled both encouragement and warning, neither heard, as he watched the vehicle move away, the occasional solid shot sweeping past the moving tank.
He dragged himself into cover, his damaged knee leaving a trail of blood in the snow.
Where the bullet had come from, he didn’t know. It hadn’t been meant for him, of that he was sure; just a rogue touring the battlefield, having missed its original mark.
But it still hurt like hell.
At the river, the Panther swung swiftly and the tank accelerated forward, rattling the engineer bridge as it bounded over the water.
The trouble with using the bridge, something about which they had no choice, was that a canny gunner could anticipate where a tank would be at a given moment and no skill on the part of the driver could overcome that.
The Pershing gunner, selected for the captured tank because of his capabilities, was such a gunner, and he timed his shot to perfection.
The 90mm shell struck the rear plate, right on the bottom edge, slamming straight down into the bridge, through it and into the river below.
The impact knocked the drive train offline and the tank came to a halt after a few metres.
