‘Not one fucking smoke shell between them!’
Still, the advance was rapid and without casualties so far.
The pleasurable thought was immediately driven from his head as the lead T-54 was engulfed in smoke and flame, the modern tank transformed from running vehicle to inferno in less than two seconds.
“Mudaks! Jink, Comrade, jink!”
One of his BTRS took a direct hit and his brain refused to acknowledge the evidence of pieces of his men being thrown metres into the air.
Bullets were pinging off the light armour of the armoured personnel carrier as the defenders of the hill brought machine-guns to bear.
Looking through his observation slit, Yuri Nazarbayev could see the flashes from the enemy’s weapons.
There were a lot.
He made a decision that many would criticise after the battle.
“Teegr-Dva, Teegr-Dva, Teegr-Dva-Dva, Teegr-Dva-Tree, move around to the left… go around to the left, over.”
He pointed in the direction he wished to go so his driver could steer away from the increasing volume of fire to their front.
The two motorised infantry companies responded immediately, and the centre and left of the assault moved obliquely left, leaving the T54s in the centre ground without infantry support.
Nazarbayev contacted their commander, ordering the tanks to provide support from cover.
On the right flank the attack went in as planned.
0820 hrs, Tuesday, 25th March 1947, Polish reserve position, Old Man’s Nose, Seirijai, Lithuania.
“For fuck’s sake, Sergeant Major. We’re needed over there!”
“No.”
The infantry CSM, of equal rank to Czernin but under his command, baulked at the recon NCO’s lack of response to the threat posed on the left flank of the position.
By nothing more than luck, the Soviet attack had chosen a route that denied all but one of the Centurion’s a shot, leaving only the left flank guard to take on the platoon of T34/100s.
“At least let me send my AT team over there, Sergeant Major!”
“No. there’s a greater threat here. I already have two tanks that will bolster up over there… but the enemy has moved off to the right and disappeared under the ridge line there.”
As he spoke, Czernin suddenly had a moment of clarity.
“Dupeks!”
He shot a quick glance at the map and dropped down from the tank beside the angry infantryman.
“I know what the bastards are doing. Look here.”
A Centurion yielded to another hit and started to burn lazily, allowing the crew to get out and carry their wounded driver to safety.
“They’re coming around the hill. Set up to cover our rear immediately! Send a runner to the engineers to inform them.”
For all his annoyance with Czernin, the man was a professional and organised his men at high speed.
Czernin was back in his turret and calling orders to his crew when the Bren gun beside his tank started to rattle.
“They’re here! Driver forward… and… right turn… hard right… drop in behind that wrecked lorry… gunner… numerous targets coming over the ridge… engage on sight… high ex.”
His crew sorted, Czernin looked out of his hatch to take in as much of the battlefield as he could.
“Target… on… fire!”
His tank rocked back and the leading BTR slammed to a halt as an AP shell destroyed its engine, driver, and commander.
Czernin fingered his microphone.
“I said high-ex!”
“It’s what was fucking in it!”
The loader’s voice betrayed his fear so Czernin let it go, but determined to give Milosz a serious chewing out later.
In front of his eyes, the BTRs disgorged men who tumbled from the still-moving vehicles, although more died as his other tank put a shell on target.
The hull machine-gun joined in the defence and, in concert with the thump of Bren guns, bullets starting to claim casualties amongst the Soviet motorised troops.
“Target… on… fire!”
The shell struck home and removed the rear end of a turning BTR, treating the defenders to the weird sight of what appeared to be half a vehicle driving away down the hill.
It would have been comical enough for laughter if the bullets weren’t raining down upon the Polish defenders.
An incredible storm of lead was coming back at them and Czernin kept his head down low to avoid losing it.
“Target… on… fire!”
The Chaffee rocked back on its suspension once more, but this time Bartek Otulski missed, and missed badly.
“Bartek, forget the fucking vehicles… take out some of these shitty machine-guns… direct HE.”
“On it.”
“Infantry surging left!”
The driver’s warning made Czernin stick his head fractionally above the cupola.
The turret whipped round at full speed traverse and the coax stuttered, knocking two of the attackers down, and forcing the others to ground.
Czernin considered the .50cal on his pintel mount, but decided using it would be the last and most stupid thing he ever did.
“Traverse right… quickly… infantry group… shit! Bazooka!”
The turret traversed again and bullets spat, joined by the hull machine-gun, and the group of men were chewed up by fast moving lead.
None the less, something came their way and passed just by the side of the hull before exploding behind them.
“What the fuck is that?”
Czernin did not expect an answer; all he knew that it was deadly and had only just missed.
“Look out for those bloody things!”
His peripheral vision caught three smoke trails reach out to his companion tank and wipe it and its crew off the face of the earth.
“Four’s gone… keep your eyes open for these bazookas… kill them straight away… don’t wait for orders!”
He grabbed the thompson from its clips.
The sound of bullets striking the tank now resembled handfuls of hi-speed gravel, such was the volume of fire.
“Target… on… firing!”
The 75mm gun sent another HE shell into the enemy assault force.
A smoky trail reached out and Czernin instinctively ducked.
The explosion rocked the light tank and hot gases punched through the interior.
‘Am I still alive?’
He decided he was, given the stench that rose from where Milosz’s bowels had opened in terror.
“Report!”
The crew all called in, except Milosz who was screaming in pain, and it was Otulski who supplied the details of their lucky escape.
“It hit the fucking barrel!”
“What?”
“The fucking thing hit the barrel.”
Czernin understood now why his loader was holding his face, and why the smell of the explosion and the hot gases were all-pervasive.
‘Oh my god! You poor bastard!’
The stream of product from the explosion had come straight out of the breech and struck Milosz in the left side of the face as he leant over to get another shell.
From what Czernin could see, it had virtually melted the man’s eyeball and burned from ear to nose down to the bone.
He had to be brutal in order for them to survive.
“Michal… tend to Jan… driver… reverse slowly!”
He pushed his head back out as the hull gunner did what he could, which was enough to silence the burned loader as an ampoule of morphine brought instant relief.
The turret machine-gun hammered out in defiance as the Chaffee backed away.
Czernin stuck his head out quickly and gave Scorupco steering instructions into a shell hole.
‘Perfect.’
The hull machine-gun could still operate, but the hole covered the lower portion of the hull and the tracks.