Fanshaw realised that the lack of communication with any of the Hussars stationed to the south was bad news, and had taken six of his tanks along the same route plied by Prentiss an hour or so beforehand.
Held up by some Soviet infantry who blundered into their path, seemingly escaping from Bad Brahmstedt-land, Fanshaw took a moment or two to examine the battlefield ahead.
The number of Black Prince casualties alarmed him infinitely more than the number of dead Soviet tanks. The new force of enemy infantry and tanks brought him down to earth with a bump.
“Damson-six, all Damson. Large enemy force to front. Line abreast and engage at will. Out.”
As he concluded the message, he saw the immobile tank of his commander, enemy infantry creeping forward, moving down from the woods.
“Driver, forward, right turn… head for the CO’s tank.”
The FAS jeep tucked in close, ready to receive the inevitable order.
Fanshaw hesitated to pass it as yet, the battlefield ahead too confused to know just who was who, at least with the certainty required to avoid friendly kills.
Prentiss saw the Hussars’ tank approaching and slipped out of the turret, dropping into cover alongside ‘Kinloss’.
When Fanshaw’s tank had stopped, he ran across the small divide and dropped in behind the Black Prince, releasing the squawk box handset from its mount.
“Tommy, thank the lord you got here on time!”
“I’ve got eight tanks, an extra platoon of infantry, and a FAS controller. He’s in the jeep behind us, Sir.”
“Splendid, Tommy. You’ve radio contact with everyone I assume?”
“No Sir, I’ve…”
Prentiss ducked as bullets spanged off the rear armour, the two Soviet soldiers who fired quickly dropping back into cover again as a half-track arrived and spilled some KSLI infantrymen, initiating a brief firefight that cost five lives.
“Say again, Tommy.”
“I have no contact with anyone on your net, Sir. ‘D’ Squadron only for some reason.”
The sharp sound of tank guns seemed to accelerate in frequency and increase in urgency.
“Tommy, tell whoever you can get hold of… on my command… fire smoke, red smoke, into the enemy positions, leading edge, clear?”
“Crystal, Sir. Red smoke at enemy positions.”
“Wait for my order to execute. Out.”
Prentiss closed his eyes as the headache washed over him, almost wishing he could scrape the afflicted organ through his eyes.
He focussed on the jeep, its position betrayed by two aerials sticking above the level of the scrape it had dropped into, and made the short dash in safety.
“Flying Officer Rogers, Sir.”
“Rogers. Do you have a tentacle link?”
“Yes, Sir, I do.”
“On my order, give the coordinates for this location,” he put his finger on the F/O’s map, “Red smoke, Limejuice… understand… initiate Limejuice.”
“Yes, Sir, err, I’m on it right now, Sir.”
The pilot officer, young enough to have been a twinkle in his father’s eye when Prentiss first took up soldiering, noted a map reference and calmly passed it to the Flight Sergeant next to him for checking.
“That’ll do nicely, Sah.”
Prentiss touched the young RAF officer’s arm.
“Give me a thumbs-up when confirmed.”
The radio operator went live on the tentacle net, a two-way system that put the Forward controllers in touch with the Air Support commander attached to 11th Armoured Division.
Passing the details, F/O Rogers gave the map reference, colour, and, for the first time in his short career, initiated a limejuice attack.
Prentiss had already gone and was back at the D Squadron commander’s tank, preparing to issue his order, watching the two aerials sway.
A solid shot hit the tank and whooshed away, narrowly missing the half-track that had disgorged the KSLI infantrymen.
The Black Prince rocked back slightly, as the 17pdr sought retribution some six hundred yards down range.
On Rogers’ third attempt to be seen, Prentiss noticed the signal and acknowledged it, speaking rapidly into the squawk box.
“Tommy…”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I make the wind southerly. Confirm please.”
After a moment, Fanshaw agreed.
“Excellent.”
It was probably the first bit of luck the Hussars had all day.
“Fire the smoke, Tommy. Just keep it thick enough, nothing fancy. Limejuice inbound.”
“Roger, Sir.”
Red smoke shells started to burst amongst the leading elements of the renewed attack, and a number of vehicles, tanks and infantry carriers pushed faster, trying to get out of what they assumed was a developing kill zone.
A few surviving tanks from ‘B’ and ‘C’ Squadrons joined in, understanding what was needed.
Not one tank fired two smoke shells in a row, as survival meant reverting to solid shot, to kill the enemy forces as they closed in.
Colonel Karpetian screamed.
He screamed at the aircraft that immolated his command.
He screamed at the dead tank regiment commanders for not hearing his warnings.
He screamed at his second in command for no other reason than he was there.
He screamed at himself, inside, knowing that he had committed his men to no avail, and lost them all for nothing.
The codeword ‘Limejuice’ initiated a rolling air attack, the likes of which he hadn’t previously seen.
The newly rejuvenated Allied ground attack force had stacked its aircraft neatly behind the front line, each squadron issued with a target, but each required to delay in the queue, just in case a priority target was called in.
Such was the ‘Limejuice’ system, which initiated the air controllers vectoring in available formations, sending them to the map coordinates, with strict instructions to attack the ‘red’.
Karpetian’s order that his own men should fire red on the enemy positions could not be obeyed; there was no red smoke available.
The SU’s had fired everything they had as well.
And so Daniil Karpetian could only watch as Thunderbolts, Typhoons, Whirlwinds, and Mustangs ravaged his veteran units.
Prentiss was back inside ‘Kinloss’, picking targets for Cream to destroy.
The gloomy voice of an exhausted Higgins made itself heard.
“Last AP going in. Only got HE left now, Sir.”
‘That’s bally awkward!’
Prentiss could only make one decision.
“Engage the soft-skinned stuff. Leave the tanks for D.”
The last AP sped across the wet ground and disappeared into the innards of a T-34 that was pushing itself out of a streambed, exposing its underbelly.
Men emerged, screaming, their clothes burning, their flesh melting.
“Target half-track, three hundred. On.
“FIRE!”
A miss, the jiggling vehicle making it as difficult as possible to get a hit.
Another shell swept across the field, striking the vehicle in its bogies and shredding the track instantly.
Cream’s second shell caught the human content as it tried to bail out.
Pieces of body flew in all directions and no-one stirred once the smoke had cleared.
The air attack was growing in intensity, as more assistance was brought in to stop the Soviet counter-attack.
Every weapon that could be brought by the Allied ground attack aircraft was released above the streams of Northern Germany.
Fire… shrapnel… explosions… bullets… rockets… all brought horror and death, as the Soviet mechanised units struggled to either extricate themselves or push forward.
A French piloted Whirlwind, a venerable aircraft dragged out of mothballs to help equip the newly re-established Armee de L’Air, selected a juicy target and lined up its four 20mm Hispano cannon.