Only the timely intervention of British 8th Armoured Brigade saved the day, although not enough men were salvaged from the debacle to put the 117th back into line. It was subsequently disbanded and its survivors posted to the 116th, bringing it back up to strength as well as adding additional manpower.
The two VCs awarded to Royal Marine NCOs made front page news, as did the ‘heroics’ of 8th Armoured.
The true and unedited facts of the disaster did not.
It was ever thus.
As his armies got more and more out of position, relative to each other, McCreery ordered the Canadians to redouble their efforts, in order to make more gain on the right flank of British Second Army.
The valiant Canadians pushed even harder, and made more ground, but not enough, and many men were lost in the effort.
New units, held back for fear of revealing Allied plans, started to arrive in Denmark and Holland, although not disembarking in Hamburg, which continued to defy the attempts of British and Canadian troops.
So, whilst the commandoes died in their droves, the Canadians fell in their scores, and the civilians of Hamburg suffered further indignities, Second Army drove the Red Army slowly backwards.
And as they drove the Red Army deeper into Germany, the Fox watched.
The Fox watched, and the Fox waited.
Bagramyan sat drinking water and munching on some delicious pork sausage and bread, grudgingly provided by the nuns who were the original occupants of his new headquarters.
His staff worked as he sat contemplating the situation map, his keen eyes taking in the little changes that were recorded as more reports came in from his commanders.
Giving nothing away, he kept his fascination to himself, but nothing could stop his eyes being drawn to Schwerin.
‘Nothing… still nothing?’
He selected another sausage and patiently resumed his vigil.
More contacts reports were posted.
‘Neubukow…’
He sucked on the spicy sausage, slowly and pensively, almost smoking it like a cigar.
‘Jurgenshagen…’
‘Dabel…’
Placing the half-consumed sausage on the plate, Bagramyan stepped smartly forward.
Chief of Staff, Vladimir Vasilevich Kurasov, stiffened automatically, and others who knew their boss, tensed themselves, their senses tuned to Bagramyan’s every move and word, whilst retaining the outer skin of busy employment.
Bagramyan beckon his CoS closer.
“Contact Gnidin… ask for a situation report please, Comrade.”
Kurasov summoned a runner and wrote a swift message.
The man disappeared at speed, watched by his pensive commander.
“Shall we, Comrade?”
Bagramyan strode off after the message holder with his CoS in step behind.
Waving down the men who stood to attention as he entered the communications centre, he listened to part of the exchange.
Kurasov moved in closer, and the operator felt perturbed by his presence.
He placed a steadying hand on her shoulder as he watched the words appear on a message form, her hand trembling slightly as she wrote.
“Confirm… ask him to confirm immediately and contact us back immediately.”
“Yes, Comrade Polkovnik General.”
Kurasov moved back to Bagramyan’s side and spoke out of the corner of his mouth.
“It appears the circumstances now exists, Comrade Marshal. I have taken the liberty of getting a confirmation.”
Bagramyan nodded in satisfaction.
Kurasov knew his methods well, and acted instinctively, as his commander would wish.
Six minutes dragged by, but eventually the message came through from Major General Gnidin.
‘No contact with enemy forces on my line. Confirmed as of 1222 hrs.”
135th Rifle Corps, Gnidin’s command, sat policing a west-east position between the Schaalsee and Schwerin.
The British had moved passed him, failed by their lack of knowledge, intent on driving towards their Polish allies.
Bagramyan had gambled that they would do so, and placed 2nd Tank Army and 5th Motorised Army in a position to cut through to the Baltic Sea, stopping the British drive and denying relief to the embattled Poles.
A sudden silence had fallen upon the communications room, the occupants, without exception, focussed on their commander.
The Armenian Marshal nodded to his CoS.
“Now, Vladimir Vasilevich, execute the attack now.”
Whilst other men stood watch, the crew of Lady Godiva II stood down for a treat. Their tank was concealed in a hasty scrape in the ground, made large enough to house a crew rest station, and extra space for their guests. All was concealed by a net that had already proved to keep some heat in, as well as protect from air observation.
The whole squadron was positioned on the raised ground in front of Lützow, arranged to defend against attack from the south or south-east.
The experienced tank crew had returned their Mark I tank to workshops, and a new Mk II had been issued, something that gave the men mixed feelings, although the extra refinements and thicker armour were most welcome.
But for now, more earthly matters filled their minds.
“Bloody marvellous, Laz… no really… bloody marvellous!”
The words were punctuated by regular spoonfuls and the wiping away of delicious juices.
The crew of the Centurion were downing the finest food they had tasted for some time, courtesy of relieved local German residents and the culinary prowess of their driver, Lazarus Wild.
Pork and apple, with potatoes and gravy, backed up with a sweet pastry concoction prepared by the farmer’s wife, topped off with a bottle of Becks each, just to wash it all down nicely.
Herr Förster, his wife, and their three children, having no English, could only moan in satisfaction as the delicious pork disappeared at speed.
Laz Wild, beaming with satisfaction, went to the cooking pot and lifted the heavy weight.
“More, Frau Förster?”
The slender woman took a second full portion without a word.
Wild saw his crew exchange envious looks.
“Quit yer possitin now, lads. There’s plenny for all.”
Herr Forster and the children also received extra portions.
The children were sat on the tank’s fender, legs dangling down, the war a million miles away and beyond thought.
The British tank crew laughed.
The family Förster laughed.
Life was good…
A sentry’s warning…
Godiva’s crew suddenly alert…
A distant heavy crack…
The passage of a tank shell…
Screams… the screams of those who are witnessing true horror…
The tank shell had missed the Centurion, passing down her nearside at a height of about one foot above the fender, casting aside the slight resistance offered by the Förster children’s bodies.
Blood and pieces swept through the air, and no-one was spared the awful distribution.
Frau Förster had stopped screaming and now lay unconscious on the cold earth.
Herr Förster was emitting a low animal sound, as he rummaged through the awfulness in vain, seeking something that he could hold and mourn.