The pilot, for too long a prisoner of the hated Boche, shredded the half-track with a short accurate burst and turned away to find another target of opportunity, not hearing Prentiss’ cursing, nor the popping off of MG rounds as the KSLI vehicle burnt.
The surviving light infantrymen braved the burning half-track, and desperately tried to recover the driver… and failed.
The last Whirlwind placed its five-hundred pounders very precisely, despite the loss of its port engine.
Two Soviet-manned Shermans and a half-track were turned to scrap metal in an instant.
The French pilot failed to adjust for the loss of weight, and the aircraft tilted, exposing the full profile to a ZSU AA mount.
The airman was dead before the port wing clipped a smoking T-34 and the whole aircraft turned end over end, like an out of control Catherine Wheel, pieces flying off with each earthly contact, until the strain caused the shattered air frame to come apart completely, showering some hiding Soviet infantry with burning aviation fuel.
They ran around like human torches until a merciful bullet struck them down or a fiery death overtook them.
To the eternal credit of the experienced 9th Guards Mechanised, those at the front still tried to press, and closed, in some cases, to zero range with the British tanks.
Those in the killing zone were visited by another wave of Typhoons, seemingly beyond numbers, who discharged rocket after rocket into the disappearing red smoke.
A few British tanks topped up the marker, allowing the airborne killers to continue their assault.
It was a slaughter direct from the days of the Roman Empire, or the Crusades, blood and bodies visible everywhere upon the field.
In ‘Kinloss’, the turret was turned by hand, and the BESA used to discourage a group of infantry who seemed intent on approaching.
“Cease fire, man!
Cream stopped immediately.
“They’re surrendering. They’re bloody well surrendering!”
All across the field, dazed and shattered Guardsmen raised their hands in surrender and gradually the guns became silent.
Not so the Typhoons, and an appalled set of British tankers watched as more than one non-combatant was cut down in a strafing run.
Prentiss shouted towards the jeep, hoping to catch Rogers’ eye.
A second run had finished before someone noticed him, and understood the signal he was giving.
‘Stop the attacks, for the love of god!’
There were no more, the controllers glad to reign back their assets and send them south to a situation developing around Hamburg.
Prentiss took leave of his crew and, sending one of Fanshaw’s troopers to bolster ‘Kinloss’, left the D Squadron commander in charge of the area and commandeered the jeep for his own purposes.
“Drive on, Flight Sergeant. I’ll show you the way.”
The jeep turned and headed back towards the centre of Prentiss Force, the dead body of F/O Rogers curled up in the back.
As the vehicle drove Prentiss away from the centre of fighting, he looked sorrowfully at the evidence of his losses.
His Hussars’ Black Prince tanks were everywhere; dead, burned out, punctured, living, the whole range fell before his eyes.
Even then, he really had no idea of the cost that victory had exacted.
Whilst the Southern Defences had been embroiled in their life or death struggle, Lieutenant Colonel Robin Kreyer had ravaged the two groups of the 7th Guards Rifle.
Around Fuhlendorf, the drive south had been totally blunted, and the Guardsmen either surrendered or moved off eastwards to try their luck elsewhere.
Many of that group were swept up in the attacks on the Cheshires’ ‘A’ Company, and the battle on the edge of the woods had, for a little while, hung in the balance.
Timely use of his reinforcements gave Kreyer victory in that area too.
Perhaps the greatest success was on the autobahn side, where the larger part of 7th Guards had tried to escape.
Shot at by tanks, AA guns, SP guns, and infantry, the toiling Soviet escapees suffered hideously from the flanking fire, and many turned back northwards, running into their retreating rear-guard, and the leading tanks of the Guards Division.
The final Hussar casualty was A Squadron’s First troop leader.
His tank engaged an armoured vehicle to its front, moving south, some distance away, intent on driving down Route 111.
The Black Prince missed; their target didn’t, and a 17pdr APDS round punched through the turret, neatly removing the commander’s left arm at the elbow.
The radio net was full of excited voices, all of which revealed the truth of the exchange.
The Guards Division had entered the battlefield, and the destruction of the 7th Guards Rifle Corps was complete.
Leading the way came ‘C’ Squadron, 2nd Battalion, Grenadier Guards.
The Centurion II at the head of the column moved cautiously off the road and crossed the autobahn to where its recent target lay abandoned.
“Laz… Pull in alongside her.”
The commander heard the mumbled response but was engaged on other matters already.
Recently promoted CSM Charles checked the surroundings, and saw only friendly pudding bowl helmets amongst the living soldiery, or at least those armed with guns, the others being unarmed and shuffling the walk normal for shocked and dejected prisoners of war.
Behind the tanks, half-tracks fanned out across the ground, disgorging squads of soldiers to help sweep the field clear of any hiding survivors.
“He fired first… stupid… just stupid…”
“Can it, Pats.”
The gunner was mortified that he had fired at one of his own.
“I must’ve killed someone, for crying out loud, Sarnt Major, I must’ve!”
Charles dropped down into the turret and selected the Thompson sub-machine gun.
“Pats… listen to me. I gave the order, end of. He fired first, end of. He’s a Black Prince, and unless I’m very much mistaken, the first bugger you’ve seen. Certainly the first I’ve seen. No blame attached to us, no matter what, ok?”
The gunner nodded, but it was plain he didn’t see it that way.
“I’m off to take a gander. Stay tight and keep your eyes peeled. Commander out!”
The Black Prince had taken, by Charles’ quick estimation, eleven direct hits, and had still been operational.
‘Impressive stuff, gotta say.’
He clambered aboard, waving to a passing Cheshire Corporal, herding four dirty and dishevelled Soviets with the point of his bayonet.
A quick look inside the tank filled him with relief, although the blood certainly meant that someone had taken a tap from Patterson’s shell.
A Cheshires’ Sergeant wandered up and begged a cigarette.
“You the buggers what bagged him, are ye?”
He flipped his petrol lighter, giving first light to Charles.
“Yep. He fired at us, but missed… we didn’t. Know what happened to the crew, Sarge?”
“Think the commander lost an ‘and or summat. Rest were fine seemed. They took the lad off t’aid post.”
Charles looked at the Cheshires’ NCO quizzically.
“Cheshire?”
The Sergeant laughed.
“Feck orf. Wiltshire born and bred you.”
They shook hands and parted.
Charles dropped back into ‘Lady Godiva II’ and slapped Patterson on the shoulder.
“Bloody good shot, Pats. Seems you clipped a Rupert on the way, but everyone’s alive… and the tank will be back working directly. No great harm done.”
Charles wasn’t being insensitive to the tank officer who had lost his hand, more realistic about needing his gunner fully on the job.