With a disarming smile, Yarishlov ventured his opinion.
“That is why we frontline soldiers take our precautions, is it not?”
It was Deniken’s turn to nod.
Returning to his map, Yarishlov considered matters further.
“I suggest you start immediately, Comrade Mayor, as will I, once your men are aboard my tanks. When I am at the bridge, the rest of your men can push up and secure it. I will leave some support for them, say two tanks, but I will turn quickly and cut into this lot from the flank.”
The Major followed the plan on his own map. It was simple but effective.
“If needed, make sure your mortars can put down some smoke to mask my approach clear? On your own initiative, or if I request it.”
“Yes Comrade Polkovnik. My mortars have four smoke rounds each.”
Yarishlov cocked an eyebrow at the infantry Major, impressed that the man had such knowledge at his fingertips.
Deniken almost blushed under the complementary scrutiny.
“What can I say, Comrade Polkovnik, counting mortar shells is my only vice.”
Kriks, taking a sip from his canteen, spluttered, caught unawares by the man’s humour.
Yarishlov and Deniken exchanged grins before swiftly moving back to business.
“Radios and codes. This one we will call Ivan,” he indicated first the road bridge before sliding his finger to the railway bridge, “And this one Boris. Your radio sign is?”
“Narot. Narot-three-one, Comrade Polkovnik.”
“Sable for me. Sable-seven-one.”
“My radio is misbehaving, so I suggest back-up signals, Comrade Polkovnik. I have a lot of green flares at the moment, so shall we say two greens if the circumstances are right and I decide to press the position to move them off the bridge before you get there.”
“Excellent, so if I need your smoke I will launch two blue as a back-up to the radio. Let my force take the initial strain here, so don’t risk your men unnecessarily. My tanks….” Yarishlov ground to a halt in mid sentence, “Apologies Comrade, I know a good officer when I see one. Right, let us to the business of the day, Comrade Mayor. I will ensure 22nd Tanks know your flare signals and call-signs.”
Salutes were exchanged and both officers went their separate ways as the clouds started to grow dark and drop their heavy loads on the battlefield.
The defenders were a hastily cobbled together force of Canadians from the 1st Canadian Infantry Division. A savaged company of the Loyal Edmonton Regiment of the 2nd Infantry Brigade, until recently assigned to the extreme left flank to join up to the Carleton & Yorks of the 3rd Brigade, sat astride the road bridge. They were complemented by two 6pdr anti-tank guns that they had managed to drag back with them.
At the rail bridge was a scratch force of men from the 1st and 4th Field Companies, engineers who were tasked with ripping down the structure with their expertise alone, explosives being a medium of distant memory.
Supporting the two defensive points were five Shermans of the French-Canadian 12th [Three Rivers] Armoured Regiment, vehicles that all showed the scars of recent combat.
Each bridge had one tank close-in, the three vehicle section dwelling in between, ready to respond to wherever the crisis was worst.
Deniken’s mortars started to bring down their barrage on the Canadian positions, accompanied by machine-gun and rifle fire. A 6-pdr anti-tank gun spat shells back and wiped out a Maxim crew, just before two mortars shells dropped from the sky, wrecking both gun and crew.
Visibility dropped dramatically as the weak sun disappeared and the murky day became a rainstorm of monumental ferocity.
Deniken pushed his lead elements closer to the Veerse River so that they could continue to bring down fire on the defenders who, for their part, were just as decisive in defence. After a while, the two forces had closed up to within one hundred metres, with the swelling river in between, and still not close enough to truly see what each was firing at. Casualties still occurred on both sides, as speculative shots found warm flesh, more against the Soviet infantry by dint of their larger numbers.
Yarishlov’s group, skirting the woods and advancing slowly, suddenly found the going getting very heavy.
‘Too slow, too damn slow!’
The experienced tank colonel reacted instinctively, switching his force to the railway line, accepting the disadvantages of a column formation and off-setting them for the advantages of getting closer quicker. The violent downpour helped the Soviet force deploy undetected, even at the relatively modest distance of three hundred metres, the sound of the rain successfully obscuring the noise of approaching armoured vehicles, at least until it was too late.
Engineers labouring in heavy rain dropped to the ground as the leading tank’s hull machine gun found targets.
Even then, some of the troops clustered around the rail bridge did not fully understand the nature of the sounds that were reaching their ears.
The Sherman tank crew, woken from their slumber by a soaked and agitated gunner, got their tank ready for action, as their commander tried to understand what he was hearing and seeing.
Grey shapes in the rain materialised into enemy tanks, and he quickly called range and angle bearings for his extremely unhappy gunner before alerting the central tank troop by radio.
Taking his angst out on the enemy, the dripping Lance-Corporal Blanc made sure his first round hit the target, stripping away the front hull hatch that had been opened to permit the now-dead tank driver to see where he was going.
The T-34 slewed quickly and stopped, sending its infantry riders flying, and leaving the offside completely exposed to the second round. Wheels and pieces of track flew off as the armour-piercing shot wrecked the rear drive sprocket and severed the track.
Other T-34’s sought out the Sherman and the commander decided to move off before the gunner could get a third and decisive hit.
Dropping back and right to the secondary position he had spotted only that morning, hasty shots flew into the former hiding place, marking the quality of his decision.
If anything, the rain had intensified, and the damaged Soviet tank could only just be observed from their second position. The young sergeant received a timely reminder that observation is a two-way thing when the T-34 got off a well-aimed shot, the glowing metal striking the side a glancing blow before flying off into the field beyond.
His own tank halted in its new firing position and he gave the order to fire.
The delay was such that he repeated his order and looked across to his gunner.
“Just getting it right, Maurice. Watch this and give me a medal.”
The 75mm gun spat out its shell and it tracked in through the driver’s broken hatch and exploded within the tank.
“Viens m’enculer, Guillame!”
Sergeant Revel leant across and slapped his gunner on the shoulder.
Lance-Corporal Blanc wanted to bask in the moment but couldn’t, as other indistinct shapes clarified into Soviet tanks that pushed past the dead T-34.
“Merde!”
There was nothing the Canadian tankers could do to stop the massacre of the engineer troops on the bridge, except to try and kill as many T-34’s as possible.
Blanc took a deep breath and engaged the latest target, muttering as his round sailed closely past its turret.
A deafening clang took away the Canadian crew’s senses, as an 85mm shot clipped the turret side.
Shaking his head, Revel tried to focus but couldn’t, as much a product of the shells effect on his ears and brain as the damage it had wrought on his commanders optics. Blanc retained sufficient sensibility to successfully engage the leading tank, which halted immediately, the surviving two crew members debussing straight into small arms fire from the surviving vengeful engineers.