“OK. Laz, move her on down the road.”
The centurion moved not one inch.
“Laz, you dozy bugger. Wake up before I put my size ten up your ass!”
Patterson tapped Charles.
“You’re not coming through on my headset, Sarnt Major.”
Charles looked and immediately coloured in embarrassment.
He had forgotten to connect himself back up.
Correcting the error, he tried again.
“Lazarus Wild, you northern monkey. Get this tank back on the road.”
“Northern monkey, is it? Weren’t my fault that t’bloody NCO din set his comms up proper like, were it?”
Charles was hoisted by his own petard, and the chuckles around him confirmed his crew knew it.
“Weekend passes revoked, you bastards.”
The Centurion moved back onto the Autobahn, everyone understanding that there would have been no weekend passes for the foreseeable future.
The remnants of Prentiss Force were concentrated in the area round Hill 73. Mostly concealed within the edges of the woods that surrounded both ends of the small ridge.
The 1st Cheshires had suffered dreadfully, with four hundred and eight dead and wounded, over half of the men who had taken to the field.
75th Anti-Tank’s Jackson M-36s had done extremely well, losing only three of their number, and claiming an extraordinary number of vehicle kills.
The platoon of the King’s Shropshire Light Infantry’s 4th Battalion lost eight men dead and three wounded, only one of each to the errant French Whirlwind.
15th/19th Hussars had taken heavy punishment, with seven of their armoured cars knocked out, offset by only two losses amongst the Comets.
23rd Hussars had suffered more than any British cavalry regiment in modern times.
Prentiss had commanded a modern armoured regiment of new battle tanks and experienced personnel, bringing them into harm’s way with confidence. Fifty-six Black Prince tanks, virtually the entire number sent to Europe for front line service. They were accompanied by eleven Stuart tanks, ten Crusader AA tanks, and a plethora of support vehicles and personnel.
Of the 23rd’s personnel, only one-hundred and ninety-nine were living on the field. Some of the casualties were laid out, some covered, some uncovered, or were screaming amongst the two hundred or so to be found in aid stations set up around Fuhlendorf.
Other Hussars remained within their armoured vehicles, waiting for their recovery by men with a stomach for such things.
The Regiment gathered round, and an unsteady Prentiss climbed on top of his Dingo armoured car.
So many familiar faces were missing.
His eyes sought and failed to find men with whom he had served since Normandy.
Algie Woods…
Stu French…
RSM Stacey…
Old Wrigglesworth…
Others were absent but still alive, their wounds being tended and soon to return. Others, such as Soames and Jemeson, would never return, and might not survive to see another day.
The 23rd Hussars were a seasoned unit, with many hard fights under their belts, but the eyes that looked back at Prentiss had seen the vision of the doors of hell fully opened, inviting them in, pulling them closer and closer to the threshold, until the vision started fade, the doors closed, and silence fell on the battlefield.
Somehow, their gaze seemed focussed on something miles behind him, as if each man was still, in his mind, somewhere else… somewhere awful…
Prentiss jumped.
‘Wake up, man!’
He had almost drifted off whilst stood upright.
For some unknown reason, he suddenly felt very weak, not just tired and exhausted, but almost unable to stand.
His mind focussed quickly, and he made a decision.
“Sit down, gentlemen… please do sit down.”
As his men sank to the floor, Prentiss sagged and managed to arrange himself on the rear deck without anyone noticing his weakness.
“Lads… have you all had a brew?”
“Is the Pope feckin Catholic, Sah?”
The unforced laughter almost made him well up, so proud was he of the men he commanded.
‘Such spirit… brave lads…’
“Well then… let me say that I am proud of each and every one of you… you’ve done magnificently today… truly you have.”
A trooper made an enquiring gesture, and Prentiss nodded.
“Yes, do smoke if you have them, gentlemen.”
He paused whilst pockets disgorged the necessary and lungs were filled with the comforting smoke.
“Right then, gentlemen.”
He rubbed his left eye to stop the nagging pain, not, as some thought, to hide a tear.
“We’ve lost some fine friends today… more than we’ve ever done before… but what we’ve achieved here today will be remembered long after we have left this land.”
He acknowledged the unit’s padre shuffling.
“A special church parade will be held at 1800. The padre will find a suitable place to set up. Of course, we must bury our dead, and Captain Montagu has found a lovely spot just down the road there.”
Normally, the tankers lost a crew or two in a day’s combat, and the logistics of their death were little by way of a challenge. The Battle of the Streams was decidedly otherwise.
“We… together… will carry our comrades from the field… and we… together… will bury them.”
Prentiss pushed himself to stand.
The gathered men sensed the change and stood as well, all coming to a position of attention.
“I am so proud to have served with you all. Through from Normandy to this place, the 23rd have brought professionalism and skill to the battlefield. We have also brought comradeship… and in the spirit of that comradeship…” Prentiss snapped into a rigid pose and raised his right hand in the military fashion, “I salute you all.”
One hundred and ninety-eight hands returned the salute.
“Right then, gentlemen, let’s get busy. All officers, report to me for orders, Parade… dismiss.”
The men turned smartly to their right in a standard dismiss, and failed to see Prentiss on the way down, the building pressure of the swelling in his brain overcoming his efforts to remain standing.
He clattered onto the Dingo and rolled off, unconscious.
That he was unconscious was a blessing, as he fell onto a vehicle jack blasted from a Staghound as it passed through the Soviet artillery barrage earlier in the day.
Concealed in the grass, the pointed metal top plate penetrated his back, punching into his thoracic spine at Th8.
Colonel Cedric Arthur Moreton Prentiss, the Viscount Kinloss, would never walk or soldier again, and became the final Hussar casualty of the Battle of the Streams.
[Author’s note- The investigation that was initiated regarding CSM Charles’ destruction of the Hussar Black Prince exonerated Charles and Patterson, whilst, perhaps understandably, falling short of pointing blame at the Hussar tank commander.
The actions of Prentiss and his force have been the stuff of debate by historians and military minds ever since, and will undoubtedly continue well into our future.
Some have condemned his decision to ‘circle the wagons’, offering the alternative of withdrawal from the field, leaving the Air Force to pummel the Soviet forces. Others have said he over-extended himself in the first place.
It is undoubtedly the case that the Air Force ground attack formations saved the day, otherwise Prentiss Force would have been wiped out.
I am no expert, but I offer some observations.
He was under direct orders to take and occupy Bimhölen, denying transit to the escaping 7th Guards Rifle Corps and its accompanying units.