The fire had died away and he considered the .50cal once more.
His second Chaffee exploded for a third and final time, the blast virtually ripping the small vehicle apart and almost blowing the fire out.
He hadn’t known the Sergeant who commanded that well, but sadly knew that he had four children and a wife waiting in Edinburgh.
Unaware of what was going on in the general battle, Czernin tried contacting other tanks in his troop, without success.
He snatched up the thompson halfway through one attempt, and shot down two Soviet soldiers who materialised twenty yards from the left side of the tank.
The two men went down bloodily, both writhing and moaning in the mud.
“Commander out!”
He dropped off the side of the tank and drove home a fresh magazine as he moved towards the two men.
The RPD light machine-gun that one had carried he had seen before.
It was the tube weapon in the other’s hands that had caught his eye more.
Quickly checking the area before he moved forward, he put a burst into each man before collecting their weapons, plus a bag containing more of the strange projectiles.
Bullets started to pluck at the earth around him as he moved back towards the Chaffee and he was forced into cover.
The tank’s turret turned and sent a few bursts towards the enemy and the fire dropped away enough to encourage him into a second effort.
He rose and immediately dropped to the ground again, again fumbling for his thompson.
A pair of enemy soldiers, oblivious to his presence, dropped into a hole behind the Chaffee and prepared to fire one of the strange rockets at it.
The submachine-gun chattered and one man was thrown away by multiple impacts.
The other dropped out of sight, the ‘bazooka’ still in his possession.
Czernin made a quick decision and was up and running in an instant, thompson at the ready, his entire focus on getting to the enemy missile man before he raised his head to take the shot.
The Russian did raise his head to fire, but not with the brand new RPG-2 he had been holding, but with a Tokarev automatic pistol, and Czernin was the target.
The fifth bullet the Soviet soldier fired struck the submachine-gun, sending it from his grasp and painfully jarring his wrist.
Another clipped the side of his upper left arm enough to draw blood but not enough to stop his charge and impact into the Soviet guardsman.
His body hammered into the Russian and drove the shouting against the body of his comrade lying in the bottom of the hole.
Czernin felt bones give way and a groan of excruciating pain came from the man he had just inflicted massive injuries on.
Both lungs were pierced by broken ribs, and at least one of his thighbones had given way when folded hard around the SKS rifle the dead man still gripped in his hands.
Foamy blood immediately sprang from the dying man’s mouth as he cried for his mother, but Czernin was in no mood for quarter.
He grabbed the discarded Tokarev and put two bullets into the man’s chest at point blank range.
The dying man gurgled a few times more before falling silent.
Catching his breath, Czernin felt his own aches and pains surface, but grabbed the SKS and checked the vicinity for more tank hunter teams.
Yet more bullets came his way, and he quickly worked out that his tank was more exposed than he first imagined, as the firing came from close in, and on both sides of the Chaffee.
Breathing deeply, Czernin tried to get as much oxygen as possible into his lungs so he could make a quick sprint to the rear of the tank and use the squawk-box to warn them of their predicament.
He was up and running before he had completed the thought.
0828 hrs, Tuesday, 25th March 1947, Senis Nosis, Seirijai, Lithuania.
“For fuck’s sake, kill the bastard!”
Nazarbayev was reloading at the precise moment the enemy tanker had sprinted from cover and watched impotently as the man had a charmed life in the storm of bullets his men fired at him.
His eyes took in the detail of the SKS in the enemy’s hands.
‘Palenkov gone for sure… and probably Huninin too.’
His plan had not gone well as the enemy were prepared for his rear attack.
‘Mudaks!’
He had left his other two RPG teams to watch the rear of his assault, in case new enemies arrived on the field, but now he needed at least one here, as the enemy tank was proving to be a serious block on his advance.
A runner was dispatched to bring one up the slope whilst Nazarbayev quickly came up with a new plan with two of his senior NCOs.
It never got off the ground as a shout drew his attention back to the Chaffee, which was manoeuvring back slowly, its hull and co-axial MGs hammering away defiantly.
If nothing else, Nazarbayev was decisive.
“Give me the mine!”
Instantly, the German-made mine appeared and was thrust into his hand.
“Cover me if anyone interferes, Comrades!”
He levered himself upright was running like a greyhound before anyone could comment.
The Hafthohlladung weighed about three and a half kilos, a not inconsiderable weight to carry when stalking an enemy tank.
Somewhere off to his left rear, an enemy saw the threat he posed and tried to bring him down.
He accelerated more, although he thought it impossible to run faster as his heart and lungs seemed to want to burst from his chest with every leap and bound.
The tank loomed large in front of him and he made the last surge, failing to notice the bullet that ploughed across his left calf.
Inside the tank they heard the metal on metal sound as the magnets attached themselves.
Nazarbayev tugged on the ignitor as a bullet spat off the tank’s side and clipped his temple.
Shaking the blood from his eyes, he pulled again and the charge was set.
He ran.
0833 hrs, Tuesday, 25th March 1947, Old Man’s Nose, Seirijai, Lithuania.
Czernin sprang up and ran straight into the Soviet officer coming the other way.
They crashed into each other and collapsed at the rear of the still reversing tank.
Czernin’s pain returned as his previous injuries manifested themselves and stole his breath.
Nazarbayev felt light headed, the Poles’ chin having connected hard with his forehead, further opening the ricochet wound.
Both men were stunned by the shockwave as the Hafthohlladung detonated.
It was an unequal contest, the magnetic charge capable of penetrating nearly 140mm of armour, nearly four times the maximum thickness the Chaffee could muster.
The side armour surrendered with ease and the tank was flooded with the stream of hot gases and plasma.
Unseen by either man, Scorupco emerged from the driver’s position, swathed in orange flame, only to fail in his efforts and succumb to his injuries, falling partially down the front of the tank where his torso hung from the hatch by burning legs.
Self-preservation became their prime concern, and both men ran as fast as they could, to put distance between them and the burning Chaffee.
Some of the Polish defenders saw simply another Soviet rush, and fired on the pair.
It was Czernin that took the first hits, leading because Nazarbayev was slowed by his calf wound.
Two bullets entered and exited his right forearm no more than four inches apart, knocking him slightly off-balance. Another round took him in the hip. The mud did the rest, and he disappeared into another shell hole.
Nazarbayev followed him as a bullet clipped his heel and spun him round in mid leap precisely as another round crashed into his left shoulder and took him totally off his feet.