“Driver… advance!”
Stepanov slipped the IS-III into a low gear and edged the tank forward, eyes wide open and ready to respond instantly to any threat or command.
The main gun swung in the direction of their advance as Ferensky tensed like a coiled spring.
Head poking out through the cupola, Stelmakh felt himself start to react and then, much to his surprise, not, despite the fear that gripped him and wrestled with his innards.
Kalinov simply hummed, denied any input from the outside world, save the sounds of battle that started to rise once more.
Around the IS-III, the motorcycle troopers and two platoons of men from the 22nd Guards Motorised Rifle Brigade pushed forward, carefully moving from cover to cover, screening the tank as they advanced.
A few bullets spanged off the tank’s plates, one close enough to make Stelmakh jump with fright, the spark stinging his cheek until the heat died away.
The DShK had been set ready so that all Stelmakh needed to do was rise up and aim, although to do so would risk exposing himself to enemy fire.
The turret coaxial stuttered and Stelmakh watched as tracer bullets ate away at partially demolished wooden structure, from which two men emerged running as if the devil was on their heels.
The turret rotated slightly and walked bullets into the hindmost man, who fell like a rag doll.
The crew understood that there was no time for ceremony and Stelmakh had ordered that any target should be engaged without orders.
His eyes swept the area ahead, to the side, and occasionally in the air above, just in case the dreaded enemy ground attack aircraft came calling.
He missed seeing the muzzle and only caught the discharge of the weapon, before the hull front disappeared in a violent explosion.
“Yob tvoyu mat!”
Stepanov’s voice had gained almost an octave, but he was intact, if not scared shitless.
“Where is he?”
Ferensky had not seen the flight of the Panzerschreck, neither had he seen the point of origin.
Stelmakh instinctively knew he had no time to tell him and propelled himself up through the turret.
The DShK hammered briefly before jamming.
“Mudaks!
He pulled the cocking handle to free the stoppage… hoping to free the stoppage… and pulled the trigger again.
Nothing.
He looked at the Legion anti-tank soldier, and saw only sightless eyes, and beyond another body, that of his loader who had also been caught by the short burst.
Both men were dead by his hand and ‘Krasny Suka’ lived to fight on.
“Driver, halt.”
Stepanov needed no further encouragement, his hands trembling on the steering controls, the anti-tank rocket having hit just to the left of his position.
Checking that the infantry were moving up either side, Stelmakh pushed himself further out of the turret and unjammed the weapon.
He ducked instinctively as a small firefight developed off to the right, the supporting infantry getting up close and personal with a group of Legionnaires.
A flurry of grenades was followed by a sharp assault, and the position was taken at the cost of three men from both sides.
The assault moved on.
“It’s not good, Rolf.”
The bloodied man was panting, having narrowly escaped a Soviet frontal assault with his life.
“I lost three men back there. We’re massively outnumbered… the schreck team didn’t get the tank either, so he’s going to be coming round that corner soon enough.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a Three for sure. Bastard thing machine-gunned Willi and Franz. They hit it, but you know… they’re a fucking bitch them things.”
“Yeah. Right. You have to hold the line there.”
Peters indicated the building that the survivors of the recent attack were huddled in.
“Need you to keep the bastards off my back. I’ve got one Rotkäppchen left but this isn’t the time. We’ll try the Soviet fausts from the flank… just keep the infantry off my fucking back, Klaus!”
“I’ll need more men, Rolf.”
Peters had few men left that weren’t already tied up, just two sections from the new arrivals.
“OK, take six men from the two reserve sections, three from each. Just hold them, Klaus… hold them.”
The man moved quickly off to get the extra men.
Peters moved over to the weapons point, where he selected two of the Soviet panzerfaust copies, one for him and one for his companion.
“Right then, Patrice, just like I showed you in training and we’ll kill the bastard. Follow me and keep low.”
The Belgian legionnaire, one of the few non-Germans in the 4e RACE, took the Lans from Peters’ hand without comment.
The two moved off to find a good position from which to get a side shot at what was about to come around the corner.
The 122mm belched flame as an HE shell was sent on its way to obliterate a machine post that was giving the infantry a hard time.
Alongside the heavy tank, two armoured cars were also pushing up, the commanders emboldened by the progress being made.
Armed with machine-guns, the BA-64s helped sweep the area, concentrating on any points that could harbour an anti-tank weapon.
“Driver, advance, take the right hand turn ahead when I say.”
Stepanov, slightly calmer now after his near-death experience, mumbled a reply.
The IS-III moved forward slowly.
A scruffy infantry officer emerged from a building and waved the tank down.
“Driver, halt.”
Stelmakh stood up and leant over the cupola.
“Comrade Mayor. Kapitan Holmin, 22nd Guards. We’ve taken all the buildings on this side of the street, so you’re clear to the junction. We’ve not progressed further… there’s a solid nest of the bastards in the first house around the corner this side… yellow and green shutters… can’t miss it… any chance you can sort them out with a shell or two?”
“What’s ahead of us when we come round the corner, Comrade?”
“Ruins mainly, a couple of intact buildings… I’ve a pair of DPs set up to watch for anything that sticks its head up.”
“What about my left flank when I’m round the corner?”
“That’s the motorcycle boys’ job. Haven’t seen them so maybe they’re hung up.”
“Risky for me, Comrade.”
The infantryman could understand the problem.
Fighting a tank in a built-up area in an environment rich with heavily armed and competent infantry was no fun for anyone, least of all the men in the steel boxes.
“Understood, Comrade Mayor. I’ll push a group of my men over the road before you turn. Orders to watch out for you. Good enough, Comrade Mayor?”
“Good enough, Comrade. We’ll move up on your signal. Good luck.”
The man moved away at a speed that defied description.
Stelmakh briefed his men.
“A section of enemy just slipped across the road, Sergent.”
Peters had been checking the anti-tank weapon and completely missed the foray.
“How many?”
“Six… I think, Sergent.”
That complicated matters, as Peters had selected an ambush spot that now appeared to be right in the way of the advancing group.
“Keep your weapon handy and get rid of the Lans tube as soon as you’ve fired it. We may need to defend ourselves against those bastards before we can relocate.”
“Yes, Sergent.”
“And wait for my signal before you fire, Patrice.”