“We won’t let you or old Splinter down, Sir.”
The other three joined him with reassurances.
They moved off towards ‘Agincourt’, taking the first steps to mount with demonstrable effort.
“It’s none too pleasant in there, Baines. Keep an eye on them, Corporal. I’m relying on you now.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Gingerly, the men of ‘Agincourt’ returned to their positions, and the tank became a fighting machine once more.
As Prentiss dropped into the Dingo’s driver seat, he wondered how effective it would prove.
Slipping the small armoured car into gear, he headed for Soames’ tank.
Before he got there, the Soviet Army launched an attack that would bring Prentiss Force to the point of extinction.
Soames’ Black Prince engaged something, Prentiss didn’t know what, but soon it seemed that all of ‘A’ Squadron was firing, supported by the Achilles TDs of the 75th, and heavy machine-guns from the Cheshires.
British mortars added to the resistance, and Prentiss quickly steered away from the position that the mortar platoon was secreted in, not wishing to expose it to fire.
Slipping into cover a reasonable enough distance away, Prentiss pushed himself up out of the driver’s seat and pressed his binoculars to his eyes.
Enemy armour and infantry on foot were swarming out of Wiemersdorf, seemingly intent on overwhelming the defenders of Fuhlendorf before the British could get reorganised.
It was immediately clear to Prentiss that his left flank was already in danger.
A short radio conversation sent his CS Churchill tanks, fitted with 95mm howitzers, and two of the Crusader AA vehicles, to support the defence of Fuhlendorf.
‘Damn and blast it. Where’s our artillery?’
His eyes blazed, even though numerous Soviet vehicles were now smoking on the field.
Back on the radio, Prentiss switched to the Artillery network and gave precise orders.
He waited until the artillery shells started to arrive before revving the Dingo and returning to his HQ.
Once inside the farmhouse, the briefing started.
Prentiss Force was being assaulted at four points; two from the north and another pair of attacks coming from the south.
“FOO?”
“No contact, Sir. Nor from the AA troop stationed nearby. I suspect they’ve had it.”
Prentiss worked the problem.
“Lieutenant Jemeson, take three men from the signals section, maps, radios… drive like blazes and get back on that hillock. You’re our FOO until relieved.”
A voice summoned him urgently.
“Sir!”, he turned to the signals sergeant, “It’s Captain Soames reporting in, Sir.”
Quickly moving over to the NCO’s position, Prentiss listened in as the newly frocked commander of ‘A’ Squadron made his brief report.
“Blackberry, over.”
“Blackberry, this is Apple-five, they’re falling back. Fifteen enemy tanks destroyed. Apple has lost four vehicles total, over.”
“Roger, Apple. Out.”
A shell fell nearby, dropping a lump of plaster from the ceiling, straight onto the map table.
Prentiss swept his hands over it, clearing the dust away.
“Talk to me, Stuart.”
“Sir, ‘B’ Squadron has taken fire from a combined tank and infantry force that moved obliquely across them… seemingly headed for Bimhölen.”
French drew a rough pencil line.
“Major Merton stopped the blighters here, and they’ve fallen back. ‘B’ has lost three tanks, with two disabled but still in the fight. Also, two of the Stags have been knocked out, Sir.”
“Can he hold?”
“Freddie says he’s in good shape, Sir.”
“Any word from the Cheshires’ CO?”
“Light casualties generally, Sir… except Bimhölen, where the Soviets pushed in very close. The Cheshires hung on there by the skin of their teeth so it seems. 15th/19th counter-attacked and knocked the stuffing out of the enemy, who fell back. Only one Comet lost, Sir.”
The Hussars’ Colonel accepted a mug of steaming hot tea from his batman.
“Thank you, Wrigglesworth.”
Others also got their own, allowing Prentiss a few moments to take the full situation in.
“Right, Stuart. I want Cecil to send his ‘C’ Squadron closer to Bimhölen. Tell him I want them tucked up safe in these woods here,” his fingers hovered over the woods near the autobahn immediately west of Bimhölen.
“Send First Platoon of the Recce Troop as well.”
Prentiss moved on, seeking additional alternatives, and spotted one immediately.
The Regimental administration troop was backed up in the western end of Bad Brahmstedt-land.
“Right, Stuart. I want to form another infantry reserve right here. Leave one man per vehicle, and get the rest up here immediately…with transport… make sure Sandy knows that I want him in position quickly.”
Captain Lysander Chandos Montagu, commanding the Regiment’s logistical support troop, was not known for his speed at the best of times, and Prentiss wanted to make sure the man got the message.
“And ‘D’ Squadron? Anything from Tommy at all?”
“No, Sir.”
A young radio operator interrupted.
“Begging your pardon, Sir, but Major Fanshaw has been moving for some time. He apologises but was unable to get through on the radio. The transmission was lost before completion, Sir.”
“Get him back as soon as possible and find out his arrival time here.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Both Prentiss and French stood back from the map.
“Right. So we will get ‘D’ Squadron at some time, but we don’t know when. We still have some armour reserve, and Sandy’s boys as infantry for the moment. That’ll have to do for now.”
He addressed the radio operator curtly, revealing the stresses of command.
“Get me the Brigadier immediately.”
Taking the last gulp from his mug, he offered the empty up to the hovering Wrigglesworth.
“We need more infantry, and another FOO… and I think soon. Let me know as soon as Jameson reports in.”
The conversation with Brigadier Harvey started with a quick briefing on the situation. Prentiss’ plea for reinforcements was cut short by the arrival of a 76mm HE shell.
“Sir? Sir?”
Nothing.
The 76mm shells, there had been three in total, had not hit directly, but had been close enough to do harsh work amongst the men and equipment of the Hussars’ headquarters.
The Holzbein’s farmhouse was levelled.
Lysander Montagu’s men had already dragged dead from the rubble and laid the distorted bodies out with as much reverence as shattered bone and riven flesh allowed.
Major French, identifiable by his epaulettes only, seemed to have taken the most punishment, the general effect of which had been to virtually rip his limbs from his torso, what attachment remained made the corpse resemble a string puppet of the most ghoulish kind.
Next to him lay the totally intact Wrigglesworth, unmarked, save a light covering of dust, but equally dead.
The radiomen were stretched out, completing the line of five bodies so far recovered.
“Sir? Sir?”
Prentiss dragged himself from the edge of the black abyss.
“H-H-Here!”
Pressure grew on his legs as someone stood on top of the debris hiding him from the rescuers.
Something… a door possibly… was pulled away and a draft of cool air hit Prentiss in the face.