It was a slaughter, and as more tanks joined in, Soviet gunners raised their hands in a futile gesture of surrender.
The Poles and the Russians had a long history of enmity, and more than one man present had lost a relative in the Katyn Woods, or the Soviet backstabbing attack of 1939.
Pomorski sensed an opportunity and ordered the assault to move forward immediately, keen to strike an enemy weakened and clearly badly commanded.
Leading the 1st’s advance were Comets, and the first troop swept over the next ridge and disappeared from view.
The sharp crack of high-velocity tank weapons announced contact, and the radio messages drew more resources forward.
Czernin’s Chaffee moved as quickly as it could across the ground in between and was up and over the ridge and, to none of their liking, quickly embroiled in a sharp tank versus tank action.
“Gunner, target tank, left three… quickly man!”
The Chaffee jinked as best as it could, the steering not responding properly, but enough to make aiming difficult, even with the stabilisation unit.
Czernin read the battlefield quickly.
“Driver, in behind that burning tank…the Comet straight ahead… there… quickly.”
The Comet was lazily burning and could have exploded at any time, but he reasoned that its bulk would provide cover while he tried to not get noticed; light tanks in a medium tank battle tend to have the life expectancy of a sick mayfly.
In reality, the smoke was a better concealer than the metal of the dead tank, although it made their eyes water and sting.
“On! Fire!”
The 75mm sent a shell down range and, at the close distances the battle was being fought at, penetrated the side of the T34.
But it did not kill it.
The tank was a M44 conversion with the 100mm weapon, which would put the shell in the front and out the back of their small tank without even noticing it had hit anything.
“Again! Under the turret! Hit it under the turret!”
The black smoke emerging from their target’s engine compartment hindered his aim, but Czernin’s gunner concentrated, taking the extra half-second to make sure he was on target.
The AP shell struck home directly on the turret ring and jammed the turret in place, its barrel pointing uselessly at the area behind the Chaffee.
“Any fucking chance, Bartek?”
The gunner simply gave an affirmative-sounding hum and sent another shell into the immobilised tank.
“Impressive!”
Czernin watched as the tank simply came apart in one violent explosion, catching men halfway out of hatches.
The front plate of the tank cartwheeled away, crashing into the side of one of the Polish Comets, causing those inside to evacuate their bowels in fright.
The turret went high into the air and dropped back onto the burning wreck, before dropping off the back and coming to rest with its barrel in the air.
Despite being outnumbered, the Comets were giving a good account of themselves, using standard AP in the main, conserving the new HESH, which were still not so readily available as to be used on anything but the big boys.
As one, the surviving T34s turned for the ridge behind them and all but one made it over and down the other side before the 1st Regiment could react.
Czernin listened to his new orders and consulted the map.
Pomorski had decided to combine the Light Tank Troop, the headquarters tank troop, and a handful of engineers and infantry, and send them off to the right to circumvent the positions ahead, a plan that had been discussed, should it become necessary.
The main weight of the tank squadron and Highland infantry struck straight down Route 132 and saw immediate results as the enemy started to melt away in front of them.
Czernin’s troop led the way, using speed to circumvent the enemy’s main force, only stopping occasionally to direct one of the Centurion’s from the HQ troop onto a hidden target.
Five Centurion IIs backed up the light force, the idea being that they could establish themselves on an area of raised ground named the Old Man’s Nose, which oversaw Routes 180 and 2507 and controlled them from the elevated position, with the Chaffees and infantry providing a security force to keep any would-be heroes at bay.
0729 hrs, Tuesday, 25th March 1947, 1197th Rifle Regiment’s command post, Seirijai, Lithuania.
Lieutenant Colonel Zvorykin listened impassively as the details of the destruction of his forward units were laid bare.
His regiment, a regiment in name only, was being overrun by the damned Poles, and even his tank support was running from the field after receiving a sound drubbing.
The moment he understood the position, he had shouted for assistance from his superior, who had made all the right noises about sending support, coupled with threats should his unit give ground.
‘We’re long past that, you fucking moron!’
He thought it, so wanted to shout it down the telephone, but said nothing but the words expected of him as he started to organise a fighting withdrawal of his surviving units, bringing them back to a line on Routes 180 and 181, but centring the defence on Seirijai to protect the vital junction.
The division’s temporary allocation to 10th Guards Army was clearly a poisoned chalice, not the attachment to an elite formation as it had seemed at first.
He imagined the Guards formation not worrying about his ‘second-class’ soldiers, and allowing them to bleed whilst they sorted their own affairs.
Zvorykin had lost all of his enthusiasm for war, and much of his faith in his fellow man since the heady days of Tostedtland and the drive into Northern Europe.
The arrival of one of the new BTR-152s drew his attention.
It slithered to a halt in a wave of mud and water, and out leapt a mud-splattered and bloodied officer of mechanised troops, who was clearly a man on a mission.
He returned the Captain’s salute, keen to hear what the Guards officer had to say.
“Polkovnik Zvorykin?”
“I am.”
“Kapitan Nazarbayev, 9th Guards. We’ve been trying to reach you but the radios…”
The jamming had been extremely successful, making telephone the only means of communication in Zvorykin’s headquarters, when lines hadn’t been cut by artillery or, in one instance, by the actions of his own tank support.
Zvorykin nodded and moved to the map table.
“Talk to me, Comrade Kapitan.”
“Sir, my battalion is a mile or two behind me here…” he indicated the road to Linksmoji, “…on Route 132. We’re to be your direct support to hold Seirijai. I’ve two platoons of tanks, a company of engineers, and a company of anti-tank guns under my command too. Your orders from Leytenant General Obukov are straightforward. You must hold here, which is why I am to place my men under your command.”
Zvorykin nodded his understanding.
“A full battalion of men?”
“Yes, Comrade Polkovnik. Three full companies, my own headquarters, plus a submachine company, I’ve already instructed the SMG boys to deploy immediately to here. I considered them more suited for the defence of this place.”
“Good… good… right… no time to lose.”
The colonel looked over the positions and made his decision.
“I want your anti-tank units along here… what sort of guns?
“85mm D-44s, one platoon of 100mms, plus a tank-hunter group with the latest RPG-2.”
“Excellent. Deploy the 100s east along Route 180… up to the lake. There are positions already created there… a number of my own guns have already been knocked out so there’ll be plenty of room.”