Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6) (59 page)

“But my orders say Spornitz, Sarnt-Major.”

“Your orders are out of bloody date, Sir. Listen to that…”

Charles pointed in the direction of whatever hell was being stirred up to their west.

“I take your point, Sarnt-Major, really I do, but… I say…”

With exasperation rather than respect, CSM Charles interrupted the transport officer’s words with a raised hand.

“Sir. Will you help us dismount?”

“Not here, Sarnt-Maj…

Charles spun his finger in a simple sign, and the Centurion’s engine burst into life.

The transport officer went nearly blue with the indignity of it all.

“No! That won’t do… won’t do at all! Stop that!”

Charles, his back towards the elderly man, waved his hand once more and Lady Godiva III dropped into gear and drove backwards off the trailer.

“My God, man! I’ll have you arrested! I mean to say… what the blazes?”

One of the Diamond Whites came apart in a violent explosion.

The tank crews present recognised the crack that had preceded the arrival of a high-explosive shell.

‘Enemy tanks!’

Other transporters were slowly coming to a halt behind the lead vehicles that had, until a few moments ago, held Charles’ own tank.

The tanks of ‘C’ Squadron has been caught on their transports, and were at great disadvantage.

“Captain! That’s why your orders are out of sodding date! We need the tanks off the bloody trailers… NOW!”

He shouted at the engineer officer.

“Lieutenant Ansell! Can you keep the bastards off us long enough to get the tanks off? As best you can!”

“Will do. Good luck!”

Ansell shouted at his men, pointing towards the ruins of Dutschow.

The men, engineers from 14th Field Squadron RE who had travelled up in company with ‘C’ Squadron, needed no second invitation and charged towards the hard cover offered by the rubblised remains of Dutschow.

Leaving the shocked transport captain to work things out, CSM Charles climbed aboard his tank, intent on buying some time for the rest of his squadron to unload.

“Up that rise to the left… in behind that old building… fucking sharpish, man!”

The Centurion’s Meteor engine purred as the tracks gripped the grass and pulled the fifty-two ton tank up the small incline.

The destroyed building proved to be a superb firing point, one from which the Soviet attacking force was revealed in all its glory.

Fig # 211 - The arrival of ‘C’ Squadron, Battle of Parchim, Germany.

“Fucking hell! The whole of fucking Uncle Joe’s three-ring circus is out there!”

Patterson was confronted with the original ‘target-rich’ environment.

Charles was momentarily stunned into silence, a silence broken by Wild’s laconic observation.

“Are you lot planning to use that fucking gun or what?”

The side of a T-54 proved an irresistible target.

“Target tank, right two, moving right to left, range, thirteen hundred…”

The tank commander’s instructions fell away as Charles knew his sabot round was no good at that distance.

Although he knew the answer, he had to check.

“What you got up the spout, Pats?”

“APC.”

“Good enough. You got ‘im?”

“Nope. He’s stopped behind cover, Sarnt-Major.”

“Roger… target tank… right two… range twelve-fifty.”

“On… he’s a command tank…”

“FIRE!”

The 20-pdr swept back in its mount and the APCBC shell sped down range.

“Fuck it!”

“Again!”

Charles moved his cupola to examine the rest of the battlefield, and saw the deploying tanks and infantry splitting, some on the original axis, others moving towards the debussing members of his squadron.

“Kill him quick, Pats.”

Again, the big gun spat a solid shot at the enemy force.

“Got the bastard!”

One of the T34m45s ground to a halt, its engine smoking as flames licked around the compartment.

Charles called the new target.

“Traverse right, Pats. There’s a gaggle coming out of the woods. Line of tanks… new type… see them?”

“Yep. I’m on.”

Charles examined the enemy vehicles.

“They’re the new 54 type I think.”

Patterson gave a murmur of agreement.

“Beefy, change to HESH next.”

“Sarnt-major.”

“Still on, Pats?”

“Yep.”

“FIRE!”

The gun rocked back.

“Hit! Don’t think we killed the bastard though.”

“Again.”

Silverside had slid one of the new shells into the breech.

Patterson made his adjustments.

“Same target, on.”

“FIRE!”

The APCBC shell hadn’t killed the T-54, but it had damaged it by jamming the turret in the forward position.

Quickly working the problem through his mind, the commander decided to alter course towards a small rise where he could take cover and evaluate the damage.

The HESH shell arrived and made his efforts immaterial.

It struck on the turret, roughly two foot to one side of the main gun.

The thin shell casing collapsed and the explosive filler spread like a lump of dough, all in a fraction of a second. A base fuse did the initiation of the explosives and the shock wave was dispatched through the armour plate.

On the inside, the wave detached, the technical term was spalled, three pieces of the inner armour surface.

The smallest piece of metal was five centimetres across its largest section, the biggest piece nearly twenty-three centimetres at its widest point.

The three ‘missiles’ mowed through the tank interior, not discriminating between equipment and man, and reducing both to instant wreckage.

Death was swift and the insides of the T-54 was bathed in the fluids of men who were literally chopped to pieces.

Practice with the HESH rounds had revealed an unusual problem, in that there was often no tell-tale revelation that the target had been killed; no penetration evidence, no smoke and flame, no crew abandoning.

The problem posed a question. To fire again, risking a wasted shell, or find another target, risking leaving an adversary still operational?

Charles made the call.

“Target, left one, T-54, stationary.”

Patterson found the tank just as its gun spouted flame.

The enemy shell roared down the side of Godiva’s turret, missing by no more than four coats of paint.

“On!”

“FIRE!”

Another HESH, another messy end for four sons of the Rodina.

The radio waves were full of the voices of ‘C’ Squadron officers and NCOs, their own tanks driven off the trailers and almost ready for combat.

The tell-tale sound of a 17-pdr cannon indicated that at least one of them had got into a firing position.

The Soviet force split yet again. The T-54s sought positions of cover from which to engage the British tanks at distance, the T34s and halftracks advanced, jinking as they came, trying to close the range as quickly as possible.

Soviet artillery also joined in, as Sarkashian directed his final concealed artillery unit into destroying the threat to his own flank.

Unfortunately for him and the Soviet artillerymen, one of the latest British CBR units was positioned just south of Matzlow-Garwitz.

The much-improved ground radar system was a few steps ahead of the AA radar that had proved so successful in locating Soviet mortar units.

Counter-battery fire was fast becoming a major tool in the Allied armoury, reducing the effectiveness of one of the Red Army’s strongest arms even further, by causing artillery to reposition quickly or risk catastrophic loss to incoming artillery.

The 755th Counter-Battery Radar Section, temporarily attached to 55th Field Regiment, Royal Artillery, had the very latest technology and the skill to use it appropriately. In this instance, the 755th proved extremely effective.

Their four sets were laid out in the approved manner and quickly fed back information to the waiting battery commander. Using accurate maps, combined with the radar data, the likely position of the enemy guns was extrapolated, and the artillery Captain dialled in his guns in a matter of seconds.

His battery of 25-pdrs, kept silent for one purpose and one purpose only, was quickly brought into action, and it pumped shells into the sky at an alarming rate, and with great accuracy.

1510th Self-Propelled Artillery Regiment’s last two batteries were caught as they moved off to an alternate firing position.

Whilst only two of the monster SP guns were knocked out or disabled, the real losses lay in ammunition vehicles.

The ZIS-6 and Gaz-AAA supply trucks had moved off as soon as the firing had commenced, but had been restricted by a bottleneck, that had nicely concentrated the vulnerable vehicles.

A single 25-pdr shell turned one ZIS into a fiery projectile, which in turn smashed into two other trucks, as well as sending some of its cargo of projectiles flying in all directions.

The chain reaction was impressive, and within a minute a dozen trucks and their precious cargoes of munitions were either ablaze or destroyed by the numerous explosions that followed.

Further 25-pdr shells added to the indignities wreaked upon the Soviet artillerymen, including the artillery commander and his staff, who were stood transfixed by the horrors in front of their eyes when a British shell landed roughly six foot behind the irate Lieutenant Colonel.

What was left of him was propelled into the growing inferno that was his supply column.

The leaderless artillerymen elected to move back, rather than sideways, and withdrew from the battle without further contribution.

Not that Charles and his crew really noticed their absence, as the Soviet T34s charged closer, covered by the T-54s to the rear.

“On.”

“FIRE!”

Charles had switched to the oncoming T34s, and the APDS shell struck its target directly on the driver’s hatch, destroying the Soviet tanker before going on to create havoc inside the model 45 tank.

“He’s dead. Target tank, left two, range four hundr…”

Like a sledgehammer hitting a bell, a T-54s shell clanged off the turret and flew skywards, deflecting off the leading front edge just above were Patterson was pressed to the gun sight.

“Fuck!”

His face jerked away as the power of the strike pushed the sight into his face, something that hurt despite the soft rubber edging.

“Bastard…”

He spat blood, some from his gums, some running down from one nostril.

“You ok, Pats?”

“Fine.”

He reseated his face on the rubber surround and found the target.

Another enemy shell sped past Lady Godiva III, closely followed by one that ploughed into the ruined wall that provided them with much of their cover.

“C’mon gunner. Driver, standby to move.”

“On.”

“FIRE!”

Another APDS shell burrowed into a Soviet tank, although the T34 seemed to shrug it off like no more than a mosquito bite.

“Again!”

Another Centurion did the job for them, and much more impressively, as the Soviet tank simply came apart with a massive bang and flash that left only the basic chassis and half the body in place.

“Driver, reverse.”

The Centurion moved back off the mound and into cover.

“Ammo?”

“Eight sabot, seven HESH, ten BC, full load of HE and Canister.”

Charles hummed a response to Beefy’s precise reply and made a decision.

“Lads, I’m going after their 54s. We’re the only 20-pounder here, so it’s up to us to take the buggers on.”

He checked his vision blocks again, noting even more of ‘C’ Squadron deployed in line and engaging the Soviet charge.

He grimaced as one Centurion took a fatal hit, smoke and flame immediately belching from its open turret hatch.

‘Shit!’

“Driver. Move left, take the road through the village.”

Lady Godiva swung quickly and accelerated, the upgraded engine carried the fifty-two tank forward with ease.

Racing down Dorfstrasse, Charles warned Wild well in advance.

“Take the next road on the left, Laz. Don’t lose us a track now or I’ll have your guts for bloody garters.”

Charles levered himself up into the cupola and took some deep sucks on the slightly fresher air outside the confines of the turret.

The tank slowed and Lazarus Wild negotiated the turn into Querstrasse with ease.

“Laz, at the end of this road, take it right and get me to the top of the hill there, reverse side approach, stop short of the summit, ok?”

The map notation stated ‘
Pferdekopf‘, whatever that meant.

The standard mumbled acknowledgement came back.

Charles stooped down and tapped Silverside on the shoulder.

“Pass me the Sten, Beefy.”

The tank’s sub-machinegun and two mags were quickly handed up.

“Tank halt.”

Laz brought Godiva to a gentle stop.

“I’m going to recce the top of it. Make sure you stay below the summit ‘til I wave you up. Commander out.”

Charles dropped to the ground, already running, knowing he had to get his tank back into action as quickly as possible.

Wild held the Centurion below the skyline as ordered, and the three of them took the time for a crafty cigarette.

Patterson risked a look out of his hatch and, off to the left, he watched the close battle in Spornitz between the T34s and some tanks from his battalion.

‘C’ Squadron had three tanks knocked out from what he could see, but the wreckage of the Soviet tanks went as far as he could see, the 17-pdr equipped Mark IIs more than holding their own against the 85mm and 100mm guns of the enemy.

He was brought back to earth in a second as a long whistle attracted his attention.

Charles was waving at Wild, encouraging him to bring the tank forward.

The idling engine took the strain and pulled lady Godiva III the last few yards to the summit.

Wild followed the hand signals, favouring the right side, and immediately saw what Charles had planned, and nosed the tank into a scrape on the top of the mound, a lovely piece of natural cover that left only the turret exposed.

Some trees completed the ensemble, making it a superb firing position.

Charles was up and in before Wild could take the engine out of gear.

“Right, Pats. Hold your fire for the mo. There’s a few of the buggers set along the main road line… not the main road… the other one behind it… range about two thousand I reckon.”

“I’m on it, Sarnt-Major.”

“HESH up?”

“Yep, Sarnt-Major.”

“None to waste, so make them all count. We’ll stay as long as possible… it’s a great position… stay ready, Laz... you fit, Pats?”

“Reckon so, Sarnt-Major… left to right seems best… suit?”

“Do it. Don’t wait for me.”

Patterson took a deep breath and concentrated on his sight, his mind working at high capacity to get things just right.

“Firing.”

The 20-pdr sent a shell across the battlefield, seeking out a T-54 that was partially concealed in a hedgerow.

The shell struck home and the process of death commenced, as layers of the internal turret armour whirled around inside the confines of the steel box, converting tender breathing flesh into something resembling the contents of a chef’s mincing machine.

The turret whirred a few inches to the right and Patterson repeated the process.

This time the process of dying was more abrupt and recognisable, as something inside the target surrendered catastrophically to the high-speed metal scabs, blasting the turret up and behind the destroyed tank.

The Centurion’s gun was already on the next target and a third HESH went downrange.

“Fuck!”

The shell struck short, making a small cut in the road, before bouncing up and over the target.

Charles was understandably nervous about any artillery fire, and made sure Wild was ready to move in an instant.

The 20-pdr spoke again.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!”

Patterson had missed for a second time, this time over the top of the enemy’s turret, an inch over, but an inch was enough.

The tree to the Centurion’s left splintered as it surrendered to a direct hit. The heavy trunk fell across the front of the British tank, adding to the concealment without inhibiting its ability to fight.

Charles chose to stay silent, not wishing to break Patterson’s concentration.

Silverside chose a different course of action.

“Get it fucking right or the next round will be loaded up your fucking jacksy, sunshine.”

Charles slapped the back of Beefy’s head, part in jest, part to relieve his own tension.

“Firing.”

The HESH went home and the enemy tank was silenced.

As was the next, again in more identifiable fashion, as smoke issued from the open hatches.

The driver escaped from his vehicle, the colour of his battledress drastically altered by the brief events inside his vehicle.

Miraculously unhurt, the man ran as fast as he could, trying to escape the images that were locked into his brain.

“Last HESH.”

Beefy’s announcement confirmed the countdown each crewman had been making.

The final HESH shell did no more than smash the right track off a T-54.

“Driver, reverse.”

Lady Godiva III moved quickly out of the scrape and onto the reverse slope, stopping out of sight, and allowing the whole crew to take a much-needed deep intake of air.

“Good effort, Pats.”

The gunner was less than enthusiastic.

“Not fucking good enough, Sarnt-Major.”

Patterson reflected on it for a second.

‘Four out of seven, plus a disabled… at two thousand… that’s pretty fucking good actually.’

“Should’ve done better.”

“Fucking right you should ‘ave.”

This time, both Charles and Patterson aimed blows at the grinning Silverside.

“Right, let’s move around to the right. Laz, take her round on this path… nice and slow.”

The Centurion rotated on the spot and moved around the side of the hill.

Charles sniffed the air and narrowed his eyes; the whole sky seemed to be changing colour and disposition in front of his eyes.

“Storm coming I reckon, lads.”

He switched his eyes back to the front and saw the enemy tank moving gingerly through the ruined buildings.

“Bloody hell! Tank halt! Gunner, target tank, left two, range three hundred, ass shot.”

Patterson found the T34 quickly, its vulnerable rear pointed towards them as it tried to manoeuvre for side shots on the British defensive line.

An APCBC shell slammed through the engine compartment, sending burning fuel across the road and into the ruined house beside the tank.

“There’s another, Pats! Left two, next to the burning lorry … behind the wall there!”

The two Soviet tanks had somehow manoeuvred themselves into excellent firing positions on the left flank of the Grenadier’s defensive line.

The second tank sent a solid shot crashing through the side of a Guards’ Centurion, smashing the engine into worthless scrap.

The crew abandoned swiftly, but took machine-gun fire and dropped out of sight.

Meanwhile, aware that there was an unknown but deadly threat to its rear, the other Soviet tank drove through the side of a wooden barn in an effort to conceal itself.

The attempt failed as another solid shot followed it into the barn and instantly turned the vehicle and building into a fireball.

“Driver, right, down the slope to that fence, then left to the road.”

Following Charles’ instructions, Lazarus Wild dropped Godiva down the slope and moved her left at the fence.

“Bring her up to that building and stop next to that smashed up Morris, Laz. I’m going to recce again.”

He grabbed the Sten again and was up and out of the tank.

No sooner had his feet hit the dirt than Charles was clambering back up the glacis plate.

“Tank action left… three of the bastards!”

He dropped in through the rotating turret, leaving the Sten on the roof out of the way.

“Three T-34s in line, Pats… going like shit off a stick… take the first one and we’ll shift position. Ready to move, Laz.”

The 20-pdr was trained on the leading edge of the slope.

Patterson waited.

No one dared breathe.

Nothing, save the electric air and the steady patter of large raindrops.

“They must’ve seen me. Back up, Laz, fast as you can, straight line, no messing!”

The Meteor engine dragged the Centurion backwards, gaining speed.

Charles stuck his head out the turret and grabbed at the Sten as he twisted to check the route behind.

“Little left-hand down, Laz… excellent… keep the pedal hard down… more left… good…”

Charles’ plan was to go the other way around the hillock and come in behind the enemy.

It was a good plan but, as is the case with good plans, they are sometimes thought of by the other side too.

“SHIT! Laz, hard right, tank action front, fire when you bear, Pats!”

The first of the T34s had come round the slope and Lady Godiva was showing it her vulnerable backside.

As she swung, the enemy tank fired.