The damaged Lancaster struggled to keep up but fell out of the bomber stream, as more smoke and then flame leapt from its starboard inner engine and wing. AR-L lost height, and De Villiers watched as parachute canopies started to appear.
Fascinated though he was, he dragged his eyes away to survey the sky. With no threat apparent, he returned to the stricken bomber. With detached professional interest, he watched the fire grow and engulf the inner starboard wing. He also counted six canopies floating in the breeze.
The Lancaster bled height as the pilot struggled to land his charge, and all the time the fire developed.
Reaching a critical point, the wing failed and folded at the junction with the fuselage. In the Lancasters, Typhoons and Meteors above, numerous watchers spoke many a word of prayer in recognition of the brave man, who died as the inferno struck the ground and exploded.
Tearing his eyes away from the crash site, De Villiers assessed the mission. Of nine meteors, two had been shot down, including the Squadron Commander. Another two had limped away, leaving a grand total of five, including his own craft. The Typhoons, whoever they were, had not lost an aircraft, which was a positive, but that was balanced by the loss of at least three Lancasters that he knew of.
The enemy had paid a heavy price, with five of the Lavochkins felled and over a dozen of the Yaks destroyed. The numbers were in his favour but he knew the overall balance of forces was not, and Pyrrhic victories were of no use to a hard-pressed allied air force.
The raid’s objectives were to destroy the railway junction at Winsen and to take out the crossing points over the Luhe River. In the former case, the results were disappointing, with only a moderate amount of damage done. However, in the latter cases, save Luhdorf, the results were excellent. Both the recently repaired road and rail bridges at Winsen were obliterated; similarly the two bridges at Bahlburg.
The crossing points at Roydorf were damaged, but not badly so, and with swift efforts by Soviet engineers the bridges were taking traffic within two hours. At Luhdorf, the Halifax Mk VI’s of 347 (French) Squadron FFAF missed the target and dropped their bombs into the centre of the town, killing Russian soldiers and German civilians in equal measure.
Slowly, Vladimir Stelmakh became aware of his surroundings. The external noises had stopped now but the hammering inside his head continued. By the modest interior light he could see the gunner and loader collapsed over each other, still out for the count.
Stretching out, he kicked the gunners hand and received a reaction, repeating the blow on the loaders dangling leg. Both were alive.
‘Good.’
Extending his arm, he undid the hatch and pushed upwards, not hearing the bricks slide off it but aware of the extra weight.
He cautiously stuck his head out of the hatch and examined his tank.
The IS-III was half buried in rubble and wood from the building it had parked beside, a gay and pleasant Gasthaus on Luhdorf’s Radbrucher Straβe.
‘Was’, he corrected himself, assessing the ruins.
He could see fire and smoke. He could see soldiers and civilians rushing round. He watched as an old house slowly collapsed. He realised he could hear nothing, the bombing having robbed him of that sense. He waggled his finger in his ear and withdrew it, the blood from a burst eardrum apparent on the tip.
He examined the scene further, noting the huge crater to his front, and the ruined carcass of the Regimental Commander’s tank decorating the rim.
Stelmakh stiffened and saluted whatever was left of a man he had admired.
He slowly took in the rest of the surroundings, noting with relief at the obvious closeness of his own demise, the bomb crater to the rear of his tank, this bomb having flipped another of his unit’s tanks on its roof. Again, no-one would have survived, although this tank at least could be recognised for what it once was.
Slowly, Stelmakh climbed out of the turret, becoming aware that his bladder had let go at sometime during the ordeal.
Sat at the front of the IS-III was Stepanov, Corporal, and driver of ‘Krasny Suka’. Vladimir didn’t like the name but it had been the choice of the crew’s previous commander. He had been a popular officer and had died of some medical condition. To change it could undermine crew efficiency, so he was stuck with ‘Red Bitch’ and had to like it.
Stepanov’s mouth moved and he offered up a pack of cigarettes. Stelmakh tapped his ears, and spoke words he could not hear above an internal resonant buzz. Stepanov laughed and indicated his own lack of hearing. Joined by both the gun crew, and sitting on the front of ‘Suka’, Stelmakh drew in the rich smoke and simply enjoyed living the life he thought he had lost an hour beforehand.
Medics found the four there twenty minutes later. A Doctor swiftly examined them and gave each a clean bill of health. The tankers grinned and thanked the doctor, despite the fact that none of the men could hear a word she said.
The medical team moved on and left the crew to themselves.
Stelmakh, gradually recovering his wits, if not his hearing, organised the crew to start removing the rubble from on and around their tank.
By the time they had finished no hand was free from laceration or bruise, each man having sworn as fingers were crushed, his comrades all buoyed by the fact that the cursing was now apparent, as sound gradually began to filter back into their lives.
It took over two hours to free ‘Suka’ and drive her to the rally point, as designated by the temporary commander of the regiment, who had done the rounds of his surviving troopers.
The IS-III’s were not renowned for their mechanical reliability but Stepanov was a wizard, and the Red Bitch showed her class by starting first time and moving off without problems.
6th [Independent] Guards Breakthrough Tank Regiment had been detached from 12th Guards Tank Corps but had not been incorporated into the new attack, being held back in reserve yet again.
Having not fired a shot in anger in this war, the Regiment now found itself in pieces, leaderless and savaged, casualties particularly heavy amongst the motor riflemen and support troops. Five of twenty-one IS-III’s were total write-offs; another two would need a lot of attention before being declared fit for service.
As ‘Suka’ made her way through rubble strewn streets and past shattered houses, Vladimir Stelmakh examined his thoughts. Without firing a shot, he was now an acting Senior Lieutenant, and commander of the 3rd Company.
The red-faced Colonel was apoplectic with rage.
“No, no, no, no, that’s wrong, Comrade Mayor.”
“I have my orders, Polkovnik.”
“Your orders are incorrect, Comrade. This is all incorrect!”
The hard-faced Major remained outwardly impassive but eased the PPS submachine gun at his side to demonstrate his annoyance.
“Don’t make this worse than it already is, Polkovnik. You will accompany me now.”
“How the fucking hell could I have known they had jet fighters, Comrade Mayor, tell me that?”
As no answer came from the poker-faced NKVD officer, the Colonel kept going.
“The plan was perfect, executed well, and the regiments pushed hard.”
The deadpan face revealed nothing.
“Even then, with the enemy advantage, we have downed three heavy bombers and savaged their jet force for fuck’s sake!”
Silence carries its own menace, especially when accompanied by grim purpose.
“You cannot be serious Comrade. General Sakovnin simply cannot be serious!”
Turning around to the large window looking out over the former Luftwaffe airfield of Wittenberg, he watched as the remnants of his three savaged regiments were put back together by harassed ground staff. The La-5’s had lost five of their number, the two regiments of Yak’s had returned with only fifteen of thirty-one that took off, and four of them were probably write-offs according to first reports.