“Let him be.”
A moment beforehand, some miles behind the lines, a Sexton had fired a shell that would prove less forgiving.
It arrived about two feet to the left of the Romanian officer and transformed him into pieces no larger than a matchbox.
The Soviet attack had been driven off at a cost. The infantry losses were more than made up for by the arrival of an Italian Battalion, with two more en route.
However, the 16th/5th Lancers needed to pull in the tanks of the 17th/21st to make up their own numbers; exactly half of their starting vehicles were either knocked out or so badly damaged as to be of no further use. Part of the reserve B Sqdn moved up, taking up the middle of the line, in between the two ravaged lancer units.
Haines and Stokes-Herbst had consulted on the position, given their head by the strangely disinterested Brigadier Ambrose. The senior officer had even given them his only decent map before returning to dictating orders to his staff regarding the required shaving routine in cold weather.
The two Lancer officers were too tied up in their own concerns to really understand that Ambrose was not fit to command. The staff of Force Ambrose was, for the most part, too inexperienced to challenge a senior officer of proven credentials, and with such an immaculate record of accomplishment.
Outside, the two Captains broke out their cigarettes and spread the map on a dodgy trestle table. One look at it told Haines that the defence was vulnerable, possibly much more than that.
“Bollocks. We’ve got nothing here, Charlie. Didn’t even know this road was here.”
The failure in the maps was starkly revealed by the one decent bit of cartography in the unit,
Each man produced his own map, the one each had worked from until now.
Neither showed what was obviously a reasonably sized route circumventing the Arnoldstein position, starting in Villach and ending in Nötsch, just over two miles west of the highly important position.
Stokes-Herbst hissed in disgust.
“Christ, we may already be outflanked, even surrounded! We best fall back, you’d say?”
Haines scratched his cheek.
“Not down to me, is it? I’d say not though. Let’s go and put it to the Brig and see what he has already planned.”
Spreading the map out before Ambrose, who set aside his irritation at having his dictation interrupted, Haines pointed out the possibilities, expecting the man to have made provisions and to have placed men there.
He had not, and the Lancer Captain now realised that the Brigadier was not fit to serve.
“In which case, Sir, I suggest we move the RAC boys west… to sit in Nötsch… support them with a battalion of the Italians and reposition the Archer reserve… in case all hell breaks loose up the Gail Valley.”
Haines reasoned that if he could get agreement to the reorganisation, he would set things in motion and tackle the Brigadier’s ability to command afterwards.
He had not allowed for what actually happened.
“Right ho, Captain. Now, you get it all organised. I’m off for a lie down before tiffin, brief me if the Germans look like being troublesome.”
Ambrose disappeared, heading off to his tent for a sleep, leaving the two Lancers and the Force staff shocked and silent.
Haines suddenly realised that everyone was looking at him.
It is said that nature abhors a vacuum. The same applies to the military.
‘Oh bollocks!’
“Right, you heard the plan. Get them moving now and get them moving fast. Charlie,” he turned to the 17th/21st man, “With a battalion of Eyeties and the Rifle Brigade, you’ll have more infantry than you had before, by a country mile. Free me up three of your tanks from the Stossau reserve, the best mechanically, to act as a mobile group. Get them positioned here.” He tapped the map, indicating a track running from the main road just west of Pöckau.
“Call sign… call sign will be…,” his mind went blank.
Stokes-Herbst ventured a suggestion.
“Robin?”
“That’ll do, Charlie. Robin it is. Make sure you’re topped off and ammo’ed up. Have a chat with the munitions officer before you leave, but get my mobile group in position as soon as poss, ok?”
The radios in the command centre had already contacted the 142nd RAC and the Italian unit, both units acknowledging the new orders without question.
The Archer unit remained worrying uncontactable.
Whilst the staff might have been young and inexperienced, they were nothing if not efficient, and the Archers received written orders as soon as was practicable, orders directing them to new positions at Stossau.
Haines took one of the staff officers to one side, giving him a delicate task that would require a certain sensitivity.
The commander of the Folgore Regiment, the Italian Infantry unit, was soon on the radio, confirming his orders and the dispatch of his second battalion to Nötsch, with a mortar platoon in support.
The Folgore’s battalions were not full sized, but were undoubtedly big enough to make a difference.
The third battalion was drawn up in Arnoldstein, where it started firming up the defences.
Again, the efficient Italian Colonel was on the radio, reporting to the British ‘Brigadier’ on a successful deployment. Haines had seen no reason to inform the Folgore commander of the change of leadership.
The 142nd were noticeable by their silence.
Captain Biffo Haines, aware of the facts of Stokes-Herbst’s encounter with the RAC troopers, took it upon himself to make sure that the Churchill tanks were moving.
The Churchills had not moved; neither were they started up, nor had the light shelters been moved away.
‘Biffo’s Bus’ drew up on the road outside of the farm yard that the 142nd had selected as their home.
Haines ducked his head into the turret and exchanged a few words with his crew before climbing out and dropping into the snow.
“Sergeant.”
The man saluted.
“Name?”
“Massala, Sir, Sergeant, 142nd RAC.”
He didn’t wait for a reply from the Lancer officer, swinging into his prepared statement and pointing to a few men, either lying on wooden benches or sat around gripping their stomachs.
“Sir, some of the lads’ve got a right case of the trots. At least two from each tank. We can’t move without ’em, Sir.”
The story was backed up by sounds of moaning from one or two of the ‘affected’ men, made more dramatic by more clutching and rolling of bodies.
Saying nothing, the Lancer officer moved forward, looking over the sorry bunch, who all managed to avoid eye contact, which, in itself, told him a great deal.
“Two things, Sergeant. Firstly, if you and your bunch of no-hopers are going to feign the shits, at least have the sense to smell of shit or look like you are shitting.”
The Sergeant looked uncomfortable for all the wrong reasons.
“Secondly,” he took his beret off and indicted his tank, “If you and your lousy bunch of knob jockeys don’t get your fucking arses in your tanks and down the road pretty pronto, then my gunner will start with your vehicle and won’t stop until they are all in flames… leaving you wankers free to join the poor bloody infantry. Are we clear, Sergeant?”
“Sir, the lads have…”
Haines grew in stature and in volume.
“Are we clear, Sergeant?”
The RAC Sergeant set his jaw.
“We ain’t doing it. We simply ain’t bloody doing it. We’ve been through it all too many fucking times… far too much to die now… all of us.”