B Squadron’s Black Prince tanks had acquitted themselves well, especially against the 76mm Shermans of the Soviet mechanised brigade.
The Soviet commander seemed happy to let the Shermans slug it out, whilst the T-34’s manoeuvred and used their 85mm guns to good advantage with angled shots.
Prentiss committed his reserve squadron, sending all but one troop to support B Squadron, his HQ troop, and anything else he could scrape up, understanding that the escaping forces would flow around his positions, trying to gain friendly ground, whereas the southern attack was one that intended to roll over his force and, therefore, presented the greater risk.
“Robin… I’m off to fight my tank. You know the score and can act accordingly. Best of British to you and your men.”
What happened next came to be known as ‘The Battle of the Streams”.
The tanks, infantry, and SP guns swept down upon the Soviet infantry and their handful of supporting tanks like avenging angels.
The imposing Black Prince heavy tanks, although slow, moved fast enough to overrun the first infantry units, caught indecisively between advance, retreat, and surrender.
Many Soviet guardsmen raised their arms.
“Sir?”
Houlihan, Prentiss’ hull gunner, posed the question through the tank intercom.
“No time… no facilities… sorry.”
The 7.92mm BESA mowed the dozen men down, and the scene was repeated elsewhere.
“Gunner, target tank, range seven hundred, left ten degrees.”
The 17pdr moved effortlessly.
“No target.”
“Damn, target moving left, come left five degrees.”
“Identified… on…”
“FIRE!”
The gun sent another AP shell out into the battlefield where it sought out a Sherman tank and burrowed effortlessly into its hull.
Nothing but smoke emerged from the open hatches.
‘Kinloss’, Prentiss’ Black Prince, moved on as others halted, fire and movement, fire and movement, just like an exercise.
“Infantry to front!”
The BESA rattled as Prentiss stuck his head out of the open hatch to assess the threat.
“Faust!”
The Panzerfaust missed him by a foot, even as the firer was cut in half by the tank’s machine gun.
Unperturbed, Prentiss kept his head out, the better to examine the battlefield.
He had launched his attack down Route 206, intending to hold the small bridge over the Schmalfelder Au, securing his rear, before driving eastwards into the flank of the attacking formation.
As counter-attacks went, it was unexpected and effective, up to a point.
The slowness of the British tanks gave the enemy a chance to orient themselves and the Soviet commander turned a full company of T-34’s towards them, as well as sending infantry anti-tank units into the woods on the British right flank.
The Soviet tanks charged forward, keen to close the range and, although unclear on the type of enemy they faced, the experienced Soviet tankers understood that close in was where the T-34 would profit most.
A spent round pinged off the turret hatch, reminding Prentiss of the unhealthy nature of being exposed.
“Blackberry-six, Conference-zero, over.”
Cecil Blacker’s voice responded.
“Blackberry-six, Conference-zero… halt advance. Hull down and knock ’em out on the run in, over.”
“Roger, Blackberry.”
As the C Squadron commander passed the order on, Prentiss took control of his own HQ tanks and formed a line.
The enemy mortars and artillery seized on their immobility immediately, a chance he took to knock out more of the enemy tanks.
His gunner was engaging at will, as Prentiss controlled the battle from his exposed position.
The 17pdr whirred left momentarily, before firing, the muzzle flash hiding the end result.
A second shell followed the same path and, whilst the Colonel saw no hit, the shrieks of delight from inside his tank told him of success.
‘Bloody headache won’t go away.’
He shook his head to clear his eyes and squinted through his binoculars to the woods on his right.
Snatching up the microphone, he contacted the recon commander.
“Roger, Blackberry.”
In response to Prentiss’ order, three Staghounds moved around the rear of ‘C’ Squadron and started engaging enemy infantry in the woods.
The 17pdr fired again, and Prentiss slammed his head against the hatch.
In anger, he shouted through the hatch.
“Don’t forget the bloody warning, Cream!”
Sergeant Cream exchanged glances with the loader, who could only shrug as he slid another round home.
The ‘fire’ warning had been given as plain as day.
“Blackberry-six, Chester-six…sitrep, over.”
The Cheshire’s radio operator passed the handset to Lieutenant Colonel Kreyer.
“Chester-six, as you expected. Enemy forces moving down Route seven. We’re shooting them up from the flank but they keep on running. Holding elsewhere, but do watch your rear. Still unable to raise our air support, over.”
“Blackberry-six, roger.”
The tank rocked as a shell exploded adjacent to the rear compartment.
“Fucking hell!”
Briggs, the driver, clutched his forehead where the blast had propelled him against the episcope.
“Just a bit of claret, Bert. Just give it a wipe, lad.”
Houlihan even helpfully threw a dirty handkerchief to the young driver.
A shell struck the front of the tank adjacent to Briggs’ driving position.
The inside took on a taint of redness for the briefest of moments, but there was no penetration.
Houlihan shouted.
“Find the fucker, Tim! Where’s he at?”
“Got him… FIRE!”
Houlihan only spotted the T-34 because it suddenly fireballed.
It had driven up the stream, using the banks to cover its side armour.
As had many more.
“Colonel, they’re in the stream beds… the stream beds!”
Prentiss came around.
‘What the deuce?’
He had fallen comatose for the briefest of moments.
Dragging himself back to consciousness, he queried the report.
“The bastards are in the streams, Sir, We can hardly see ’em!”
His eyes focussed on the blazing tank so recently killed by Cream.
“Blackberry-six, all units. Enemy tanks using streambeds to move forward under cover. Out.”
The Black Prince nearest Prentiss took a hit, a shower of sparks flying from the tank’s turret.
The hatches opened, and the driver and hull gunner started to emerge.
The vehicle exploded, sending the turret straight upwards and the driver forwards, minus his legs.
‘Oh my God.’
Prentiss fixed momentarily on the horrible image of the burning gunner, trapped by his mangled legs, hanging from the hull hatch, writhing, twisting, screaming…
‘Oh my God!’
He spotted the movement close in.
“Gunner! Left ninety, target tank, range thirty metres!”
“Fucking hell!”
An expression shouted by most of the crew.
The gun turned, seemingly taking an age.
“He’s spotted us! Smartly now, Cream!”
The gun levelled with the accelerating Soviet tank.
“FIRE!”
The smoke cleared.
“Shit!”
Prentiss felt the heat of the muzzle flash as the 85mm shell bored into the side of ‘Kinloss’, wiping through both Briggs and Houlihan before ricocheting back, causing both cadavers more indignity.