by Gee, Colin
Towers was furious.
Not with the plan, that was working well, so it seemed. The Soviets were doing what had been hoped, and committing forward.
The Gods of War had finally seen fit to give him a painful token of battle.
The last few yards to the river positions had been a nightmare for him, a lump of mortar shell embedded in his left buttock.
Mearns slipped easily into the small hollow and took in the sight of the Captain, his trousers round his ankles, the medic probing in a small bloody hole in the man’s backside.
Towers had a sense of humour failure.
“One word out of you, Win, and I will shoot you myself, clear?”
“My lips are sealed Captain.”
One look at the Master Sergeant’s face was enough.
“Yes, it hurts OK?”
“Don’t they all Captain, don’t they all.”
“Are your boys ready for this now?”
A nod was sufficient.
“Casualties seem light.”
It was posed as a statement, but had all the hallmarks of a question.
“Reckon so, Captain. One of the 57’s is down, hit over the river, crew all dead. Some doughs gone too, but light, really light, considering.”
“Goddamnit Doc!”
The medic mumbled an apology and dropped the small fragment into the empty cigarette packet that he had provided for the purpose.
“Here you go, Sir. Souvenir for ya. Just gonna fix it up now, and it’ll be good as new.”
Towers slipped the packet into his pocket, very much doubting his ass would be ‘good as new’ for some time to come.
Mearns had slipped up to take a look at the field, and dropped back into the hollow again.
“Soon, Captain.”
Unable to resist a parting shot, Mearns made much play of checking the magazine in his BAR.
“Avoid the can ‘til after the battle, Captain. With two assholes to choose from, an officer type, such as yourself, could be in there all day, deciding which to shit from.”
The laughter was universal, a light moment in a sea of hurt.
The moment passed as high-velocity guns started their deadly work.
1441hrs, Tuesday, 25th September 1945, concealed US defensive positions astride Route7776, Argen River, Germany.
The Soviets had codenamed the area ‘Subota’, as it was important, sitting on the left flank of their main advance.
Although it was apparently unoccupied, Antonov had ordered the 1st Infantry to move forward quickly and form a block.
The experienced Soviet Colonel returned to pushing the main assault forward, unaware that two problems were about to surface.
Firstly, the infantry fell foul of a small stream, the boggy ground slowing their forward momentum to a crawl.
Secondly, the defenders had recognized the significance of ‘Subota’, and it was occupied by an officer who knew his trade.
They ran straight into the waiting armored-infantry of the 53rd, set for precisely such a threat.
1st Company dropped into the marshy ground, their advance halted.
“Mohawk-Six, all Fox units, on my command,” he tapped the gunner and received a low uh-huh to indicate he was on target, “Fire!”
Positioned in camouflaged positions either side of Route 7776, the six M4A3E8 Shermans engaged the flanks of the lead IS-II’s.
In three incidences, the results were spectacular, a trio of the leviathans exploding in bright orange flame as vehicle and crew died together.
Two other ground to a halt, penetrating rounds wreaking havoc.
One heavy tank shrugged off the strike and turned to place its thicker frontal armour to the enemy.
Three shells hit it simultaneously, smashing wheels and tracks from its offside, the 57mm anti-tank guns of the 359th Infantry positioned across the river hitting in unison.
A PT76 suddenly realized it was a small fish in a big fish world, and jettisoned its Mugalev, turning in towards the farm buildings, seeking cover. It died instantly, transformed into an oily hearse by a high velocity 76mm shell.
“Nice shot, DeMarco.”
The gunner, light on words as ever, merely grunted and went about his business.
Antonov responded immediately.
He ordered the 1st Infantry to close up and distract whatever it was that was killing his tanks, ignoring the excuses and protestation of the commander on the ground, reporting the wet ground and new contact with dug-in infantry on the left flank of his position.
“Just get your men up there, Comrade Kapitan. Unless you want to command a penal mine detail!”
He shifted his heavy mortars to the river line, bringing down smoke to protect his flank, and swung part of his armour south towards the 7776 to take the enemy head-on.
The remainder of his force he halted level with the same route, with orders to engage any target to their front.
He moved his own reserve group up to the junction of the 7709 and 7707.
The 379th was held back, their next salvo saved until he knew exactly what was happening. The SU-76’s of the 1504th were given orders to move up closer to the action.
One of the defending M4’s took a hit. The 122mm shell was not a precision instrument like the scalpel of a surgeon; more the blunt sledgehammer of the labourer.
This sledgehammer removed the turret with ease, propelling it backwards over one hundred yards.
Hardegen, angry at the loss of one of his senior NCO’s, put one right on the money, but the shell speared into the sky, bouncing off the thick armour of the IS tank.
The Soviet vehicle moved forward and disappeared behind a small rise in the ground.
The radio crackled, and the high-pitched voice of Captain Clayton penetrated the sounds of battle.
“All Dog units, on my order… fire!”
From behind the rise came a flash. Instantly, black oily smoke marked the spot the IS had died.
Nine IS-II’s now lay immobile on the field of battle, over half of those committed, all for the loss of an anti-tank gun and a Sherman.
The 1st Company, 185th Guards Rifle Regiment had run into big trouble, barbed wire, booby traps, mines, the whole area swept with fire from US armored-infantry and tanks, all well hidden in trenches, tank pits, or in the woods by the river.
Casualties were murderous, and made worse when the US infantry commander brought his mortars into play, tree bursts wreaking their own special brand of horror on the unfortunate soldiers.
Antonov received the reports impassively, his Armoured Group desperately fighting back.
He got through on the radio to Corps commander.
The situation was grave, but not unsalvageable. Nonetheless, he broached the possibility of withdrawing and going around the stubborn defence. The reply virtually mirrored that he had given to the infantry officer a few minutes beforehand, so he concentrated on the task in hand, splitting the efforts of his tanks between the two main sources of enemy fire.
Across the river, an enemy vehicle blossomed into an orange ball, as two 122mm’s simultaneously struck its turret and hull, causing the Sherman to disintegrate. A huge solid metal lump cartwheeled skywards, as if carried on the wall of flame.
Encouraged by this, and other reports of more success to the south, Antonov brought his reserve up, focusing on the prize of the 7776 bridge at ‘Sreda’.
1447hrs, Tuesday, 25th September 1945, in and around Position ‘Sreda’, Argen River, Germany.
The radio exchange had terminated abruptly, D Company’s commanders situation report cut short by the arrival of the two heavy tank shells.
The second in command took over.
Hardegen received the report of Clayton’s death impassively, setting aside the loss of another old comrade to fight his tank, and command his unit.
“Mohawk-Six, Zebra in position. Waiting orders.”
Hardegen’s ace, held back from the obvious artillery target of the dominating high ground, had moved up and
was now in position.
Normally, the 37th Tanks didn’t have the ‘Zebras’ on its TOE, but in times of war, things change. Hardegen had welcomed the three vehicles into his unit, their own parent formation long since gutted north of Munich.
The ‘Zebras’ had earned their spurs against Hitler’s Panzers, and put their skills to good use all through the bitter days in August 1945.
To the crews of the M36B2 tank destroyers, this was going to be payback time.
“Zebra, this is Mohawk-Six, engage, over.”
The three shells ate up the four hundred and fifty yards to their targets.
One missed.
Two did not.
The 90mm’s had fired the deadly HVAP rounds, more than enough to penetrate the IS-II’s frontal armour at a thousand yards.
One shell each punched through the side armour of two of the heavy tanks engaging Hardegen’s force.
Apart from the death of its gunner, the first tank experienced no difficulties, the shell passing through and out the far side without causing major damage.
The second IS-II was knocked out when the HVAP shell penetrated and struck the breech of the gun, twisting the turret, and transforming the shell and parts of the main gun into deadly whirling fragments from which there was no escape.
The Russian Colonel knew he had a disaster on his hands.
‘Mudaks! This is murder!’
Antonov did what he could, directing fire against the high ground once more, bringing forward the infantry to assault the bridges direct whilst his beloved tanks soaked up the pressure.
Almost unbelievably, one of the PT76’s had got off a shot and killed something on the hill.
The Tank Officer had no idea what they were, except that they were deadly and now there was one less.
The PT slipped back behind its protective wall, only for two vengeful shells to punch through the brickwork, and reduce the medium tank to scrap.
Infantry from 2nd Company swarmed past his command tank, sensing that survival lay with closing to the enemy fast, as mortars and artillery started to fall around their positions.
Hardegen watched the surge and went to contact the artillery. The artillery contacted him first.
“Mohawk-six, this is Rainman. We are out in three, Have to keep some. Sorry, over.”
Hardegen had known that the artillery had very little ammunition, something that he had factored into his plans. However, now, faced with reality and prime targets, the loss of the 105’s was important.
“Roger Rainman, and thanks.”
Soviet infantry were dropping now, some in search of cover from which to fight back cover, others put there by bullets or fear.
Antonov gripped the cupola in his anxiety.
‘I must have that fucking bridge, or my men will have died for nothing!’
The Lieutenant Colonel ordered forward every man he had left to him, sending the Su76M’s of the 1504th forward to act as direct support, focusing all efforts on the 7776 bridge over the Argen.
“Mohawk-six, this is Apache-six, we are bugging out now.”
Hardegen acknowledged the expected message, the obvious wave of Soviet infantry inexorably pushing towards the river.
“Mohawk-six, all Fox units, standby to execute Plan Delta”, the tank commander swiftly checking his rear to ensure that the withdrawal manouevre ‘Delta’ was safe.
His supporting infantry had beaten the 1st Company back, and they would slip away on the execution of his order.
“Mohawk-six, all Fox units, execute Delta.”
His surviving four Shermans reversed away, swiftly disengaging, following the plan to cross the river to the south at Kressbronner Straβe, intermixed with the handful of halftracks that bore part of the armored-infantry.
The rest of the armored-infantry force slipped into the various boats they had acquired, and quickly made the relative safety of the other bank.
Antonov recalled some of his tanks, already moving off to the south, intent on pursuing the withdrawing US armour.
“Drook-one-zero, all units, execute Pyat, execute Pyat, concentrate on the bridge comrades, support the infantry, but we must secure that bridge.”
The Soviet force neared its objective.
1453hrs, Tuesday, 25th September 1945, US defensive position at Point ‘Sreda’, Argen River, Germany.
“Goddamnit but that hurts.”
The position was empty, much like his BAR.
The platoon had slipped over the river in the dinghies supplied by the 305th Engineers, his own dinghy ripped to shreds by shrapnel from the same shell that had killed his two men and removed his left foot.
Ramming home his last magazine, the Master Sergeant slid away from the water’s edge, propping himself up against a shattered tree trunk, and slipping a lucky strike into his mouth.
As he lit it, he heard the rush of footsteps as three enemy soldiers rushed forward and threw themselves down behind the wall of ammo boxes at the back, unaware of his presence.
The heavy BAR hammered out and the three lost interest in anything but the pain of their hideous wounds.
Another sound filled his ears, taking precedence over the screams of the three wounded men.
‘Oh shit!’
It was a tank, and it was coming his way.
Antonov pushed himself hard, all the time aware that his men were bleeding, all the time believing the bridge to be more precious with every extra drop of spilt Soviet blood.
“Driver, halt.”
The tank swayed even though the tracks had stopped turning.
“I have him in my sights, Comrade Podpolkovnik!”
The gunner’s voice betrayed his fears, but the man had stuck to his task thus far, and Antonov knew he would not fail him.
“Fire!”
An American tank blew up, his shell bludgeoning through the frontal armour and into the bodies beyond.
“Excellent Comrades! Driver, forward!”
A hideous metallic clang robbed him of his hearing, the smell of burning and spent explosive informing him that his tank had been badly hit.
The IS-II was still moving forward, the dead driver’s hands on the controls, the gradual right turn taking the heavy tank away from the water, further exposing its side to the enemy across the river.
Mearns saw it coming and dragged himself out of its path, his leg leaving a bloody smear behind him.
Another two Soviet infantrymen dropped inside the hollow.
This time, the American was spotted.
The BAR was slow to deploy, and one of the Russians got a shot off with his rifle as the Master Sergeant sent them both to hell.
The impact of the bullet knocked the breath out of Mearns, punching into his right breast and out his back in a millisecond.
The pain followed quickly.
He discharged his final round as his body surrendered to the wounds. In its weakened state, it refused point-blank to hold the Browning any longer.
He coughed violently, sending gobbets of blood over the earth around him.
‘Goddamnit, if the bastards haven’t done for me!’
Two of the three wounded Soviet soldiers had either died or lapsed into unconsciousness. The third lay immobile, looking straight at Mearns, his eyes full of hate for his killer, but also laced with triumph that his killer would not long survive him.
In the IS-II, still moving slowly forward, Antonov started to feel the pain of his stomach wound. Deeply sliced by a whirling piece of hinge, mashed from the driver’s hatch and transformed into a flying razor.
The tank lurched, sending the dazed gunner cannoning into him.
Antonov screamed, his wound split and permitted some of his entrails to escape.
Within seconds, he was alone with the dead driver, the other two tankers scrabbling up and out of the vehicle.
Across the river, soldiers from H Company, already enraged by the wounding of their NCO, and their inability to get back over the water to help him, discharged thei
r angst with violence, pouring heavy fire into the two crewmen.
Bullets found them with ease, and both dropped lifelessly to the ground.
There were external fuel tanks mounted on the rear sides of the IS-II, metal containers that Antonov had insisted were topped up, given the rumours about supply problems.
These were struck many times by the fusillade, and diesel fuel started to leak. The engine decking became awash, and fuel spilled down the sides of the tank.
Still the metal leviathan crawled forward.
Mearns dragged himself in behind a tree root, trying to extract his pistol, something he could not accomplish with his chest wound.
In H Company’s position, it seemed clear that the tank intended to run down their Sergeant, and the bazooka team risked themselves in order to prevent that.
The shell missed, and then it hit.
At first, the rocket passed between the 2nd and 3rd rollers, touching nothing on the way through.
Three feet beyond it kissed the ground and flipped upwards, striking the 4th roller on the other side of the tank, wrecking its axle, the roller itself, and fracturing the heavy track.
The impact did not dislodge the dead driver, who continued to discharge his duty. The offside track parted, and within seconds, all drive came from the nearside, slewing the tank into a broken tree stump, sending rivers of fuel across its hull plate and onto the earth all around.
The IS-II stalled.
Over the water, the disconsolate bazooka crew saw that they had another opportunity and took the shot.
Inside the heavy tank, Antonov was in agony, his efforts totally focused on keeping his stomach inside his body.
Outside, Mearns was counting his blessings, although the now leaning tree stump had trapped his good leg, leaving him stuck close to the front of the knocked-out tank.
The second rocket struck, penetrating the hull side adjacent to the huge twelve-cylinder diesel engine.
