As this force manoeuvred, Lieutenant Colonel Kozlov, eponymous commander of Special group that had been sent down the pass, committed part of his armour and two further motorised infantry companies, fairly reasoning that surprise was on his side and he should press Nötsch as soon as possible.
Zhumachenko, the commander of 40th Army, had a schedule to stick to and he was already behind.
He had been forcefully reminded of that by his superior officer, Chuikov, a commander incapable of subtlety in word or deed.
Indeed, the commander of the 1st Alpine Front had previously sent extra units to the 40th, just to ensure the breakthrough went smoothly and it was one of those units, the 7th Tank Corps, which was now amassed against the depleted Ambrose force, spread along approximately eight miles of the Gail River valley.
Zhumachenko had already reinforced the depleted 28th Rifle Regiment, creating a combat group, adding tanks and motorised infantry to Kozlov’s command and dispatching it through the mountains, intent on falling upon the Allies positions in and around Nötsch.
It was this force that had recently engaged at Labientschach. Even though most of the formation belonged to the fresh 7th Tanks, command lay with the 75th Division’s regimental commander, Lieutenant Colonel Novak Kozlov.
Under Chuikov’s direct instructions, Zhumachenko had committed the majority of the 7th Tanks to the initial and subsequent assault phases, expressly to break through and open up routes into Northern Italy.
With Chuikov’s ‘encouragement’, he had added the entire 62nd Tank Brigade to the renewed assault, with the promise of more support from Front reserves if he was quickly successful.
Zhumachenko was a professional officer who had started as a private, He fully understood the value of the common soldier’s life, hence his attempt to outflank the enemy position with Kozlov’s force.
His finesse might have worked in its own right, but for the direct intervention of Chuikov, for whom time was more important than extra names on a casualty list.
Therefore, as news of Kozlov’s attack reached the leadership of Ambrose Force, the commander of 40th Army unleashed his own version of a tidal wave.
Katyusha and artillery rounds arrived on target, sweeping the Baker defensive line with death-bringing high explosive and shrapnel.
The tanks were, for the most part, unscathed, although most sported new silver weals where metal had struck metal.
The Tommies of the 10th Rifle Brigade suffered badly as dozens of men were virtually obliterated.
Charles Stokes-Herbst watched in horrified fascination as one man was tossed skywards by an explosion and, before he could fall to earth, another burst seized him and threw him towards the clouds again. Four times the body came down, only to be sent back up again, each time less than it had been before.
The fifth descent finally permitted the shattered remains to come to rest, unrecognisable and awful, dropping on top of the rear hull of the nearest Lancer Sherman.
The 17th/21st Officer vomited down the side of his turret.
Wiping the residue from his mouth, he dragged his eyes from the vision and back to his front, comprehending the enormity of the assault at the same time as his tank commanders scared voices filled the airwaves with reports.
“Oh my fucking god!”
As far as Stokes-Herbst could see there were tanks. To the Lancer it seemed that the T-34’s of an entire Soviet tank regiment were bearing down on his position.
It would not have been of any comfort for him to know that behind them were more armoured beasts, and that it was actually an entire tank brigade shoehorned into the narrow pass, sixty-two tanks intent on reaching ground well behind his present location.
Over him or through him, it made no difference to them.
He thumbed his mike.
“All…”
The 17th/21st’s leader’s voice was cut short and those tank commanders exposed in their turrets were startled by the huge explosion that sent pieces of Stokes-Herbst’s Sherman flying in all directions.
An undetected ISU-152 had put a shell into the tank and hit everything it needed in order to bring about a catastrophic end to Stokes-Herbst and his crew.
The squadron net was filled with voices, some demanding orders, some suggesting options, all decidedly unnerved by events and the presence of so much enemy materiel.
Moving up from the headquarters, Haines understood that command needed to be re-established quickly so he cut across the airwaves, his voice alone helping to steady the nerves of most of the listeners.
Not yet in a position to issue definitive orders, he soaked up the information that his tank commanders relayed, building up a mental picture of a disaster in the making.
Standing in the cupola, the Lancer officer should have seen the approaching problem, but was too intent on listening to the radio.
Clair shouted a warning as he flung the Sherman to the right, noticing just in time the huge shell hole in the road to their front.
Nellie Oliphant squealed as his head connected with the breech, causing him to recoil automatically.
His head, shooting backwards at speed, perfectly connected with Haines’ groin, incapacitating him in an instant. The tank commander dropped into the tank, clutching his genitals as Oliphant struggled to regain his senses and work out what the red stuff in his eyes was.
Powell took one look and acted.
“Stumpy, pull her into cover now. Biffo’s hurt and Nellie’s pissing claret all over the fucking place.”
A gruff acknowledgement and the tank shifted into a lower gear. The light through the hatch all but disappeared as the Sherman was taken into the safety of some nearby trees.
“Need a hand, Killer?”
The gunner had already worked out what had happened.
“Nah. Nellie nutted the gun again. I’ll check it for damage obviously.”
“That’s funny, no really.”
Nellie didn’t mean it of course.
‘Prat!’
“Biffo took Nellie’s head in the goolies. Someone else can check them for damage later. I ain’t touching them for all the tea in China.”
There was no need for a headset to hear the guffaws from the two men in the hull.
Stumpy, grinning from ear to ear, took the initiative.
“Right ho then. If you’re fine with the mental case and the eunuch, Sparkle and I’ll stick some more juice in the bus, quick like.”
The driver and hull gunner swiftly slipped out of the tank to drain down the fuel drum lashed on the back of the tank.
Powell got the bandages out of the kit and started to work on Nellie.
“Just a small thing, mate. Less’n half inch, I swear. Just a lot of blood. Not even a lump.”
Killer cast an eye at the incapacitated Haines every now and again, feeling the man’s pain but, without a doubt, seeing the funny side. He stayed silent in that regard, with no intention of testing matters, as he suspected that a heavy blow in the bollocks would have given the punchy officer a sense of humour failure.
As he cut the bandage lengthways, so as to make a pair of ties, a slightly more coherent groan announced the return to life of the tank commander.
“Urghh. Fucking hell! What hit me?”
Winning the battle of ‘keeping a straight face’, Powell finished his work on the person responsible.
“’Ardest substance known to man, boss. Our Nellie’s noggin. Took you in the meat ’n two veg… right and proper.”