“It’s your capabilities that worry me, Comrade!”
The jeep leapt forward, almost losing the two security troops over the back, bringing the sound of barely-controlled oaths questioning the parentage of their leader. The canvas roof and sides that normally kept the weather off the passengers had been removed by its previous owners, so all four were lashed by the downpour as they bore down on the rail bridge.
The jeep hit a small hole and literally flew out the other side, crashing down on its tough suspension, and firing mud in all directions as the wheels sought traction. The vehicle was sliding now, its rear almost racing with the front, heading sideways towards a stout tree stump.
Yarishlov, as befitted his rank, said nothing and contented himself with reciting a silent prayer.
Deniken crashed down a gear and the jeep surged away, resuming its progress towards the bridge.
“Do you have any driving credentials, Deniken?” his blanched face betraying his concern.
Deniken grinned from ear to ear.
“None worth speaking of, Comrade Polkovnik!”
Regaining his composure, Yarishlov struck back.
“That I can believe, Comrade Mayor. I was safer at Kursk!”
A – BA64 briefing point.
B – 6-pdr anti-tank gun.
C – Three tank reserve. Initial position.
D – Single Sherman for road bridge defence.
E – Revel’s Sherman. Initial position.
F – Revel’s Sherman. Final position.
G – Three tank reserve. Deployment.
H – Road bridge defence tank destroyed in this position.
I – Camouflaged first aid post.
Grabin greeted the arrivals, unsure what was giving the two senior officers their lively, almost excited air, and conducted them to a simple wooden structure that provided some shelter from the rain. Here he made his report before Yarishlov moved on to check out his two tanks.
Deniken and he had already agreed that the armour would remain with Grabin’s unit until the 2nd Guards moved off again.
Returning to the jeep, the rain suddenly intensified to a previously unseen level and Yarishov ran quickly to a tree, under whose spreading branches he sought cover.
A previous tenant had installed a small waterproof sheet in the low lying branches, and its protection was welcome.
Sufficiently sheltered, he took the option of a quiet cigarette by himself. He inspected the knocked out Sherman tank from the relatively close distance, promising to have a better look once the rain had abated.
Leaning up against the main trunk and using a secondary growth to support his back, he relaxed. Drawing the rich smoke into his lungs, he silently reflected on the past hour, past day, past week, past…
He fell asleep.
Revel was in his mother’s close embrace, but all was not well. Hugging him tightly to her body, she was scrambling through a sodden rabbit warren, ever decreasing in diameter, jamming her son’s body between her and the wall of the burrow.
The water ran in strong streams, washing up over his face, causing him to cough, as it prevented him from breathing, or shouting, or crying.
His mother gripped him more tightly, battling further into the warren, ignoring its decreasing dimensions, plunging on to the safety it offered her and her son.
She pushed on, seemingly unaware that she was pressing the breath from her son’s body.
The glistening brown walls of the warren seemed to press in of their own accord, further restricting Revel’s capacity to draw breath.
‘Maman! Maman! Je ne peux pas respire, Maman!’
He woke up.
Yarishlov became aware of a high-pitched scream; a strangely strangled and watery scream.
Without a doubt, it was the scream of someone experiencing the extremes of terror.
He was immediately wide-eyed and grabbing at his pistol holster.
The rain was still falling heavily but seemed to be striking the soil softly; either that or the sounds of panic took precedence in his mind. He dropped to one knee and surveyed the scene around him.
Nothing.
‘Check again, you fool’.
He looked around once more, trying hard to locate the source or even direction of the strangled screaming.
‘The tank?’
Standing, he swiftly checked that the sounds of running feet behind him were friendly, before taking off towards the tank, confirming with every step he took that the source was indeed the enemy tank.
Revel and Blanc had taken refuge underneath the wreck and both, totally exhausted, had fallen asleep, not knowing that their failure to stay awake would condemn both of them to a horrible death.
The rain had turned the ground into a quagmire, on top of which sat over thirty tons of metal, gently and inexorably sinking.
Revel had awoken as the floor of the Sherman pressed him gently into the muddy ground, enough to wake him, and enough to hold him in place as the tank dropped lower still.
In full and horrified understanding of what was happening, Yarishlov shouted for help as he ripped the spade off the Sherman’s hull, immediately starting to dig at the front of the vehicle.
As other Soviet troopers started to arrive, they too dug, with helmets and hands, entrenching tools and rifle butts, reinforcing the effort at the front and starting another dig at the back.
Deniken sent a young runner away to bring back more men and tools, and then plunged back again to his frantic digging.
“Can you drag the bastard off, Yarishlov?”
The efforts of digging started to tell, each phrase punctuated by a deep breath and another use of the spade.
“Not a hope, Deniken. No time, ground’s got no fucking grip, fucking useless. He has to come out now.”
“The jeep? Drag the poor man out?”
“Give it a try, but we have no time.”
The infantry officer looked up and found Kriks, who nodded and ran like the wind.
Blanc was slipping into unconsciousness, the side of the tank under which he lay having dropped lower than Revel’s. His terrified whimpering ceased and the gunner drowned silently as his head was pushed face first into a puddle of muddy water.
Revel’s panic grew as his inability to take a proper meaningful breath increased, the flat bottom plate of the American-made tank pressing him tightly to the ground, restricting all but the tiniest movement.
The increased sounds of rescue reached him, and he tried harder to scream his presence, now unable to muster anything but a breathless squeal.
Deniken and Yarishlov worked side by side, desperately trying to manufacture a small trench into which they could try and drag the unfortunate man, or to at least move earth from under him and buy more time.
A hand suddenly appeared, moving as frantically as the restriction allowed, seemingly detached from any body. A second hand emerged and waved, both now scrabbling at the mud and water.
The two officers exchanged looks and nodded swift agreement.
Deniken leant in and took hold of the man’s left hand; Yarishlov took the right.
Both men took a firm grip and pulled, the disembodied hands pulling against them to double the effort.
One of Deniken’s guardsmen dived in between them to continue the digging work, others took hold of their officers and pulled.
Again and again, they exerted their collective strength, and were rewarded with a gain of no more than two inches.
Both Yarishov and Deniken ignored the pains inflicted by their own men.