“Here he is!”
Hands grabbed at him, bringing comfort by their presence alone, whilst others worked to move the ‘something’ that made breathing so damn tricky.
The weight came off and he found himself dragged, not into the room in which he had stood a few minutes before, but into an open area topped by a greying sky.
“Sir?”
Prentiss looked up at the portly frame of Captain Montagu.
“Give me a moment… there’s a good chap.”
The Hussars’ commander mentally examined his person, ticking off the list and becoming more incredulous as he neared the end.
‘Legs… arms… am I bleeding?… no?… what nothing at all?… jammy blighter… nothing broken…ah! Eyes… bit smudgy but working… Ah… I’ve a roaring headache… still… miraculous stuff…”
A shell exploded nearby, reaping a harvest amongst the soldiers of Montagu’s group. Hot metal brought forth screams of pain, which served to bring Prentiss out of his dreams.
“Sir, the Russians are attacking north… south… everywhere, Sir.”
As Prentiss became more aware, he sorted out the sounds of high-velocity guns, machine-guns, mortars, and aircraft engines.
“Get me up, Sandy.”
Montagu swept the Sten round to the small of his back and, with another soldier, helped Prentiss to his feet. Their helping hands were then waved away.
Swaying unsteadily, he looked around, sparing a lingering stare for the line of casualties.
“Right. Walk me to my Dingo, will you?”
‘Bit shaky old chap… but what do you expect eh?’
“I’ll need your man here to drive me, Sandy. I need to get a grip of this situation, or we’ll all be rather inconvenienced, I think.”
Prentiss mounted the small command vehicle with incredible difficulty, his balance becoming worse, rather than improving.
“Damn and blast.”
Prentiss took a look at his new driver and then raised an eyebrow towards Montagu.
“Green, Sir.”
“Right, Sandy. Keep an all-round formation, but pay more attention to the river road… Route Four I think it is. You’ve got Recce and AA back-up. Stay close to your radio.”
He held up a radio handset to emphasise his point.
“Good luck old chap. Drive on, Green. Get me to Bimöhlen.”
Lysander Montagu stood saluting a cloud of exhaust fumes as Trooper Green gunned the 2.5 litre engine and the small armoured car leapt away, sending Prentiss tumbling backwards into the passenger compartment.
Prentiss arrived at the Cheshires’ HQ, set on raised ground between the two main defence lines.
“Blazes, Cam, what happened to you?”
Robin Kreyer, the Cheshires’ OC, examined the haggard and blood-streaked cavalry officer, who waved away his enquiry, seeking a map from which to work.
“This current, Robin?”
“Indeed. Tea, Cam?”
“Love one.”
“Situation, Robin?”
The Cheshires’ Lieutenant Colonel immediately pointed at Bimöhlen.
“Buggers pressed us hard here, but we’re sound again.”
His finger moved to the west.
“Your tanks arrived in the nick of time, and your vehicles on the ridge drove into the side of the attack, and they’ve fallen back into Wiemersdorf.”
Tea arrived, and Kreyer paused for the smallest moment.
“If you’ve got anything else to stiffen Fuhlendorf then send it would be my advice, Cam. I can send 11 Platoon that way?”
Major Blastow of the 75th supplied an additional solution.
“My HQ troop is at a loose end. You’ve still got your squadron as reserve, so shall I take Fuhlendorf, Sir?”
“That should do nicely. 11 Platoon and your HQ troop it is. Now, if you please, Major.”
Blastow saluted and sped from the tent, and almost immediately the sound of roaring 6046GM diesels filled the silence, as the four Achilles drivers ensured they were all warmed up and ready to move.
Prentiss returned to the map and examined the southern edge of the battlefield.
“So who the dickens are these blighters then, eh?”
“Damned if I know, Cam! No mention in briefing… no clue from photos… nothing. They’ve come out of thin air, but they are certainly real.
The ‘blighters’ in question, 9th Guards Mechanised Brigade and 45th Guards Tank Regiment, had simply been undetected, mainly due to their expert camouflage and fire discipline, meaning that the Allied command had committed Prentiss Force into a position where they would be attacked on two sides by forces twice their size.
More pressingly, the ‘blighters’ in question were already on the move northwards, and in greater numbers than before.
The reports started to arrive, as hard-pressed tank and infantry officers relayed news of the approaching hordes.
The immediate impression was that Bimöhlen would hold, but that the north and south would probably be overrun.
Fighting for their survival, the guardsmen of the 7th Guards Rifle Corps threw themselves forward, supported by a handful of SP guns from the 712th AT Battalion. The remaining AT guns and infantry were working some miles to the north, holding back the attempted advance of the Guards and 7th Armoured.
On the southern edge of the battlefield, the Shermans and T-34/85s of the 9th and 45th advanced in waves, the mechanised infantry following close behind, all preceded by superb artillery support from the SU-76s of the 1823rd.
The Cheshires’ map reflected the desperate position.
“Right!”
The sharpness of Prentiss’ voice indicated that he had made a decision.
“Robin, if we try to do everything, all we will do is nothing… so… I’m abandoning Bimohlen and reinforcing Fuhlendorf.”
“But…”
Prentiss held up his hand.
“Bear with me, Robin.”
Grabbing a pencil, the Cavalry officer drew a few rough pencil lines, mumbling explanations and expectations as he went.
He had converted the Cheshires’ commander long before he finished.
The orders went out immediately and, Prentiss mused as he swigged the cold tea, would be sorted in time to give the Russians a bloody nose.
Part of his decision was already redundant, as he found out, as waves of messages flooded the headquarters.
“Sir, they’ve pushed our units out of Fuhlendorf.”
“Sir, ‘A’ Squadron close to being overrun. Requesting permission to withdraw.”
“Sir, Captain Montagu reports that enemy infantry have infiltrated the southern outskirts of Bad Brahmstedt-land.”
“Sir, ‘B’ Squadron reports losing two more tanks.”
“Sir, ‘B’ Coy Cheshires disengaging. Enemy infantry investing Bimöhlen.”
“Sir, 75th ‘I’ Troop report two vehicles disabled by artillery at…”
“Robin, we’re going to circle the wagons. Too late to do anything else. Here.”
More pencil marks.
“Right ho, Sir”
Orders to quit Bad Brahmstedt-land and Fuhlendorf were sent, as Prentiss pulled all his forces into a circle roughly twelve hundred metres in diameter, all except for the southern edge, where a different decision was applied.
Freddie Merton waited for the 17pdr to send its shell downrange before querying the order.
“Just sit tight and hold the buggers, Freddie.”
“Blackberry, roger. Sir, can I…”
Prentiss did the battlefield version of ‘hanging up the phone’, and the radio went silent, although the squadron net was still full of excited and strained voices reporting enemy kills or hits sustained.