At 0754, the first of the air support promised by Major General Buiansky arrived, unchallenged and keen to make its mark.
The 314th Fighter Bomber Regiment, an under-strength mixture of IL-3 Shturmoviks and Yak-3 modifications, swept over the battlefield, releasing a cocktail of HE, AP, and fragmentation rockets on the northern defences.
Close behind came the remnants of another regiment, the 277th Ground Attack, whose six Il-10s dropped their bombs all over the defenders of Bimhölen.
Above them, Yak-3s of the 4th Guards Fighter Division waited for a challenge that never came.
Encouraged by the absence of enemy aircraft, both attack regiments swept over the battlefield again, intent on knocking out whatever it was that had clawed two of their number from the sky on the first pass.
Two Crusader AA vehicles engaged the lead Shturmovik with their 40mm Bofors, knocking vital lumps off the aircraft, which nose-dived into the roadway adjacent to the Osterau, a small stream.
The next three aircraft shredded the lightly armoured AA vehicles with 23mm cannon shells, causing one to burn spectacularly, the 40mm shells exploding like a Chinese New Year party. The destruction of the nearby FOO was an unknown bonus.
Their flight path took them over the hidden reserve who, faithful to Prentiss’ orders, refused the opportunity to fire at the Soviet aircraft.
Not so the remaining AA vehicles around Bad Brahmstedt-land, who plucked one, then a second Shturmovik from the air in under ten seconds.
One of the Yak-3s, a 3K version mounting a 45mm cannon, took a different path, rounding the northern positions and running north to south over Bad Brahmstedt-land, successfully engaging and destroying a Crusader AA before mechanical unreliability cut short its attacks and forced the failing aircraft to fly away.
A third sweep of the battlefield rewarded the Soviet flyers with more kills, as cannon and machine-gun bullets found bodies and vehicles, inflicting casualties on both the anti-tank vehicles and Cheshires, knocking out one of the Achilles.
One Yak-3, a UTI trainer pressed into frontline service, took fatal hits from a Cheshires’ Bren gunner, flipping over and burying itself in the earth twenty yards from A Squadron’s command tank.
A piece of flying propeller decapitated Algie Woods with the precision of a quality surgeon, sending the head with upper teeth flying away, and leaving his ruined body to drop on to the turret floor, the blood still spurting from the open wound, drenching the gunner and loader in an instant.
The lower jaw, all that was left of Woods’ head, seemed to laugh at its unfortunate predicament.
Cheshire infantrymen and Hussar tank crew alike, as much as a hundred and fifty yards away, heard the animal-like screaming from inside “Agincourt”.
The attack aircraft departed, leaving behind five of their number.
The Soviet artillery started up once more.
Major Stuart French, the Hussars’ 2IC, was white as a sheet.
“Sir, it’s Captain Soames, Sir. Major Woods is dead, Sir.”
“Good grief, poor Algie. What’s A Squadron’s report?”
“Three tanks lost, Sir, two more disabled… track damage, being worked on now.”
Soames was a new arrival, an unknown quantity, and one that now gave both French and Prentiss a moment’s concern.
Prentiss made his decision swiftly.
“Right. I’m going to drop in on Soames… just to make sure he’s ok, and see to poor Algie. Gather the reports and radio me if there’s anything significant, otherwise I’ll be back toodle-pip.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Prentiss climbed into his Dingo armoured car and moved off to assess A Squadron’s abilities, or rather, to see if its de facto commander was capable of running the show.
The enemy artillery seemed to grow in intensity, making Prentiss check his watch.
0820.
The Dingo pulled up near to ‘Agincourt’, but within the shelter of a stand of three trees, screening it from any observation.
The sight of the Black Prince’s crew appalled Prentiss.
Two of them were simply drenched with blood, the other two less so, but all four were clearly in a state of extreme shock.
Standing over them was Captain Soames, whose voice carried over the sounds of bursting shells.
“It’s now your tank, Sergeant, so I suggest that you get a grip of yourself and get it back into action. That’s a bloody order, man!”
“Ah, Captain Soames, what have we here?”
The immaculate officer sprang to attention and peeled off a parade ground salute, which Prentiss casually returned, his mind already forming an opinion that was not complementary.
“Sir, these men refuse to remove Major Woods from the vehicle and get it back into action. Despite my best efforts they…”
“Thank you, Captain. You may return to your command. I will come and see you directly. Where’s your vehicle?”
Soames pointed to a well-camouflaged tank in the next stand of trees.
“Very well. Carry on.”
Prentiss turned to the four men of ‘Agincourt’s crew, their faces raised in expectation of a beasting from their CO.
“Sergeant Thorne.”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Will you be able to command her if we can get poor old Major Woods’ out?”
His voice said yes, his eyes said otherwise.
“Good man.”
A distant voice hailed Prentiss and he turned to look, ignoring the object in the grass, hastily but only partially covered with piece of bloody cloth.
The approaching RSM was limping and running in equal measure.
After a splendid salute, RSM Stacey stamped his foot and answered his CO’s query.
“Near miss, Sir. Slammed my ankle into one of the stanchions. Nothing to worry about, Sir.”
Prentiss beckoned the RSM away from the forlorn tank crew, a nearby shell burst adding urgency to the Colonel’s words.
“Most of poor old Woods is still in the tank. I’ll need your help, Sarnt-Major.”
Divesting themselves of their tunics, Prentiss and Stacey climbed up on the tank, the former disappearing inside the commander’s hatch.
‘Oh my Lord… oh my Lord…’
None of his crew watched as the hideous body of Major Algernon Woods was hauled out, still containing enough blood and fluid to make it extremely unpleasant for the two handling his corpse.
Stacey laid him on the rear engine covers and grabbed a small tarpaulin from the turret stowage boxes.
Prentiss and he wrapped the still form carefully, before dragging Woods off the tank and placing the cadaver next to a tree.
“Thank you, Sarnt-Major. Most unpleasant. I’ll speak to them and get ‘Agincourt’ back on the run. Keep a close eye on things here, if you please.”
The message was not lost on Stacey, who threw up a salute and limped back towards his own tank, some five hundred metres away.
“Lads,” the vacant faces met his, albeit slowly, “We’ve moved your boss out of the tank now.”
The faces were still blank, but there did seem a slight flicker to Prentiss’ eyes.
“I need old Agincourt back in the fight now, y’hear. I know what you’ve lost, lads, you know I do… but we’ve got a war to win, and you know that your Major would be spitting feathers if he thought his tank wasn’t there when needed, eh?”
The flickers were more pronounced now.
“Come on then, boys. What do you say, eh?”
He waved at his driver, who bounded over from the Dingo.
“Baines will make up your crew. He’s done the conversion, so put him where you want, Sergeant Thorne.”
Thorne stood slowly, legs shaking and unsteady, but he drove himself up to stand at attention.