Walking to the window, Yarishlov looked down upon an approaching line of T-34/85 tanks, replacements for those lost.
His professional eye approved of the tight formation.
But only for a moment.
“Job Tvoyu Mat! Kriks, are my eyes playing me up?”
Still feeling playful, the NCO feigned indignation.
“Such language from an officer. I am truly shocked.”
The lack of response from Yarishlov was noted, and Kriks fell silent.
The recently promoted Praporshchik, the Red Army’s highest Warrant Officer rank, careful to keep his bottle away from prying eyes, moved forward and sought to identify the problem.
That was easily done.
“Blyad! Your eyes are just fine, Comrade Polkovnik.”
The tanks were clearly combat veterans, not new ones from the production line.
They also carried the very visible insignia of the Polish Tank Corps.
Both men retreated into the room, silently drinking and gathering their thoughts.
Kriks got there first.
“So, Comrade Polkovnik, now we recycle armour taken from our viperous Polish allies. I wonder why that is?”
Yarishlov, suddenly very awake, drained his bottle and grabbed his cap, ready to go out and get involved in the physical work.
Slapping it hard to remove as much dust as possible, he placed it on his head.
As his Colonel gathered up his written orders, Kriks opened the door and stood back respectfully, their private friendship once more on hold in the public gaze.
“Let us hope it does not mean what we think, Comrade Praporshchik!”
He was 21 years old and one of the final products of the officer production line that had tried to keep up with extreme losses during the closing year of World War Two.
His life had been spent studying the Samurai Arts and preparing for the day that he would bring his warlike skills to the field, for the benefit of the Emperor.
2nd Lieutenant Mori Sazuki imagined himself at the head of an army, driving all enemies before him, the men behind him in awe of his valour, his Emperor’s eyes upon him as he swept the field.
His capabilities did not live up to his expectations, being only five foot four in his best boots, and wearing the trademark round glasses so beloved of his hero and mentor, General Tojo.
He was puny, even by Japanese standards, the rationing resulting from the American blockade imposing restrictions on his growing body that did not permit the proper development of muscle and fat.
None the less, he had made his way through the training process and now found himself entrusted with the responsibility of command, pushing his tank forward to support infantry units being penned back on Route 304, as Chinese Divisions rallied and fought back.
The advance divisions of His Imperial Majesty’s Armies had invested Guiping, only to be pushed out; the first reverses anywhere in China since the new conflict erupted.
It had been decided to push Rainbow into a defensive line, using their talisman status with the troops, as well as their firepower, to halt the counter-attack.
Sazuki’s Panther was an older model A, a tank that had seen active service in three armies to date, and taken lives with each.
The previous commander had fallen to enemy machine-guns, slain as he rose from the turret to get a better view. Traces of his blood could still be seen on close examination, or as Sazuki found out to his disgust, picked up by contact with various surfaces in the commander’s position.
His sponsorship by General Tojo ensured he was placed in one of the German tanks, his survivability increased by its thick armour, although other officers disputed the inexperienced soldier’s ability to handle and fight the prime vehicle.
Complimented by its own grape of infantry, riding high on the hull, the Panther named as ‘Zuikaku’ ploughed forward to its allotted position on the fringe of Highway 304.
It shared its name with an Imperial Japanese Navy Aircraft Carrier, the seaborne ‘Fortunate Crane’ proving less than fortunate, having been sunk during the Battle of Cape Engaño on 25th October 1944.
The dead officer’s brother had served aboard the carrier, surviving the sinking, but not the injuries he sustained.
Sudden firing ahead focussed the minds of the tankers and rider infantry, Sazuki directing his driver to slow down in order to orient himself with the situation.
He felt the elation of his first battle wash over him, and he automatically checked that his Senninbari was in place around his waist, picturing the proud Tiger stitched into the cloth of his ‘belt of a thousand stitches’, the traditional Shinto good luck symbol.
Familiar uniforms suddenly emerged from the surroundings, a party evacuating wounded, and a senior officer bearing down on ‘Zuikaku’ with undoubted purpose.
Sazuki dismounted and took his orders, the Major’s simple instructions being to move up to the road junction and hold it.
The senior man disappeared back into cover, quickly returning to where he was needed.
Climbing back aboard ‘Zuikaku’, Sazuki ordered the infantry group to dismount and deploy close behind, and pushed his tank forward again.
He ducked as one, and then two more bullets pinged off the armour in quick succession, strays not intended for him, but close enough for the first doubts to undermine his childish enthusiasm for the combat to come.
The tank emerged from the trees and bushes, sliding between two infantry positions with inches to spare.
At the road junction, there was a triangle where the three roads met, and the fallen trees upon it offered a reasonable firing position and lured Sazuki forward, ordering his driver to position behind the obstruction.
More bullets splattered on the armour, this time meant for ‘Zuikaku’, and a cry of pain indicated at least one of the infantry group behind had been struck.
The turret rotated and the gunner lashed out with his co-axial, putting down a group of Chinese soldiers huddled behind a bush.
Mori Sazuki was confused beyond words, his officer’s brain registering the fact that the crew were fighting without orders, the child’s brain wishing he were anywhere but where he was.
Raising his head above the hatch, he watched as more Chinese were chopped to pieces, a combination of the hull weapon and an infantry machine-gun ripping the bodies to pieces in front of his eyes.
‘Uncle Tojo lied. It’s horrible!’
To his front, a patch of the bushes grew darker and then disappeared as an enemy armoured vehicle worked its way forward into a firing position.
“Tank!”
His training forgotten, all he did was shout and point, attracting a swarm of bullets from vengeful enemy infantry.
The gunner, an experienced Corporal, caught the rough direction of his commander’s arm, rotated the turret and picked up the shape of the tank-destroyer.
He fired and missed, concentrating more as a squealing Sazuki dropped inside the turret clutching his ruined right hand, bullets having neatly separated the second and fourth fingers, as well as removing half the palm.
Despite the screaming in his ear, the corporal placed the next shot on target, knocking out the enemy Hellcat.
The fire fight around the junction was growing in intensity, and the tank crew knew they were in for the fight of their lives
All except Sazuki, who, having stopped screaming, seemed more interested in how he would now hold his sword than giving orders to his men.
As the loader laboured to serve the main gun, he stole swift glances at his officer trying to fit his wounded hand around the hilt of his sword, the face betraying the young man’s shock.
The infantry grape had been decimated as the Chinese stepped up their attack, not put off by the presence of the powerful tank.