“Chorniy-odin, Chorniy-odin, any unit not ready to move immediately, report now, over.”
There was silence.
“Chorniy-odin, all units Chorniy… advance!”
The 6th moved forward towards the undefended village and to Sulisɫawice beyond.
Two minutes beforehand, heading south on Route 9, T-54s and mechanised infantry of the 1st Guards Mechanised Rifle Division had disturbed the horizon and swept down off the heights, heading for their objective at full speed.
0611 hrs, Tuesday. 1st April 1947, Sulisɫawice, Poland.
Knocke was taking a breath of fresh air, one that he immediately contaminated with cigarette smoke, leaving D’Estlain to look after things whilst the early morning sun helped clear his mind.
Hässelbach had slipped a steaming hot mug of coffee into his hand and moved away without a word, sensing his leader needed some space.
Alternating between the wonderful fresh coffee and his rich tobacco, Knocke felt a calm descend, one that momentarily expelled his feelings of unrest and foreboding.
The leading edge of the heights to the north moved as he casually observed it, small black dots dancing on it like ants.
With the mug to his lips, Knocke screwed up his eyes, needing to know what caused the strange apparition, whilst inside he sensed he understood things only too well.
Shouts rose from those posted on watch and his worst fears became a reality.
“Alarm! Alarm! Alarm!”
Knocke’s decision to arrange his reserve in a defensive posture was proved correct, although it had been arranged more with a defence against the east than the north.
None the less, the extra units from the Corps reserve were positioned with the north in mind, and they were already coming to readiness to deal with the large force that was pouring down the slope around Wólka Gieraszowska.
The whole valley area between the enemy and his own position was reasonably clear of obstruction, save for a few rises and dips, the occasional knot of trees and bushes, and the ever-present Koprzywianka River.
More shouts alerted him to the arrival of another Soviet force on the field, this time coming at them from the east.
Knocke rushed back into the headquarters to do whatever he could do stave off the disaster that appeared to be about to visit itself upon the whole Legion corps.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”
Köster said it out loud but they were all thinking it.
He dropped easily into the turret and equipped himself with his radio microphone, all the time assessing the force that was increasing before his eyes.
Lohengrin had been idling, so was warmed up and ready to move.
The radio crackled into life as the 1er BCL’s commander issued his orders.
“All units Fuchs, all units Fuchs, Fuchs-zero calling. All units action enemy to north, repeat north. Prevent them from crossing the river. Do not advance, repeat, do not advance. Remain on the height. All units Fuchs-three to pull back and move west, repeat, move west… two hundred metres west of Nietuja. Fuchs-one acknowledge…”
Each company commander in turn repeated his orders, ending with the Third Company, whose experienced tankers were already backing up to use the main road to circle up to their new position.
It was immediately clear that an enemy force was heading due west across the edge of the heights, and it was this group that Third Company were tasked to engage.
‘Kompagnie in name only.’
Köster thought that the odds were against them because of their reduced numbers.
Soviet artillery started to fall in and around Sulisɫawice in an effort to pin down the defence.
To the east, the defending legionnaires suffered the downpour, waiting for their enemy to get closer… waiting for the order to fire.
The crews in the Felix and Jaguar [fr] tanks of 4e Compagnie 1er RCDA observed the steel monsters of the enemy heavy tank regiment grind slowly forward, knowing that they were virtually impervious to anything they could hit them with.
The 17pdr equipped Felix tanks had precious few of the new HESH rounds, which proved universally capable, but the Jaguar [fr] relied solely upon its old HEAT shell, or the newest HVAT round that had yet to prove itself against the latest heavy tanks of the Red Army.
Even though only a platoon, the six launchers of the 4e RACE, with their deadly ‘Red Riding Hood’ missiles, were the Legion’s best hope against the leviathans of the 6th Guards Tanks.
The Legion infantry were arranged in their companies on the outskirts of Sulisɫawice, save the 3e/3e/5e RdM positioned towards the rear of the village, instantly ready to man its vehicles and respond to any call.
For the moment, the infantry understood that the battle was simply one to endure, not participate in, at least until the enemy armour came in range of their AT weapons, and then it would be a different and bloody matter.
The incoming fire hit home and the IS-III rocked but continued inexorably forward, its ‘pike’ nose taking two hits and deflecting both shells away.
None the less, and despite his competence and undoubted bravery, the age-old problem affected Stelmakh and he felt the warmth spread down his inner thigh.
He didn’t even worry about it now and neither did his crew. It was simply a reaction that he couldn’t control, and they knew that he was a tried and tested warrior that they would follow to the ends of the earth if need be.
That didn’t stop the soldiers having their fun.
“Excellent work, Comrade Mayor. The risk of fire is greatly reduced.”
“Concentrate on your job, Comrade whatever-your-name-is!”
They had long since worked out that Kalinov was not who he represented himself to be, but the man was part of them now, so it simply didn’t matter.
He was an excellent loader, so it was acceptable that he would tell them in time.
In the driving position, Stepanov was assessing the ground as they advanced and keeping an eye open for the tell-tale flash of enemy fire.
He smoothly moved one way and then jerked the other, making no regular movements that might allow an enemy gunner to understand his direction.
Another enemy shell streaked past the turret and buried itself in a small hillock beyond ‘Krasny Suka’.
Stelmakh risked a look out of the cupola and saw that none of his tanks were yet stopped, something he celebrated in silence.
However, the right flank was behind and he flicked his microphone to send.
“Chorniy-pyat, Chorniy-pyat, Chorniy-odin, faster, faster, Comrade… you’re falling behind… bring it up to the line. Chorniy-odin, out.”
With some satisfaction he watched the extra puffs of black smoke mark the efforts of the five remaining vehicles in his depleted third company, a mix of IS-IVs and IS-IVm46, the latter’s superior engine making the acceleration easier than the three older IS-IVs who suffered with the inferior powertrain.
As he watched a wave of heat washed over his face as an enemy artillery shell exploded dangerously close.
He dropped into the turret, running his hands over his face and shoulders just to check that he hadn’t been hit, so close had the shell landed.
More arrived, shells of a calibre that would kill any of his tanks were they lucky enough to hit, which left him with a dilemma.
He had intended to move and identify targets before taking up cover and engaging on relatively equal terms, his big 122mm and the 130mm guns of the IS-VIIs more than capable of killing any enemy tank on the field.