“Beefy, stick your head out and keep an eye on their tanks and infantry.”
Beefy Silverside stuck his head out immediately.
Charles observed at least three of ‘B’ Squadrons tanks take fatal hits in short succession, whilst other bombs and rockets clearly claimed lives amongst the infantry.
He switched back to observing the tanks and infantry that had clearly gathered themselves to await the air strike.
More aero engines swept overhead, as a regiment of ground attack IL-10 Shturmovik followed their older sisters, venerable Il-2s.
However, the calls for assistance from the FOO and ‘B’ Squadron’s commander had not gone unheeded, and aircraft arrived bearing friendly markings.
“What the hell are they, Sarnt-Major?”
The twin-tailed aircraft wore RAF markings and had no propeller.
Charles searched his brain for the air recognition information and quickly pulled the necessary from the depths of his mind.
“Vampires… they’re the new jet… bloody Vampires.”
Ground fire stopped rising from the defensive positions, as the gunners on the Grenadier’s AA tanks realised the risk of hitting their own.
247 Squadron RAF had arrived with eighteen Vampire Mk Is. Although not the ideal aircraft for low altitude interception, they soon knocked five Il-10s out of the sky, each one of the jets mounting four Hispano Mk V cannons, whose 20mm shells tore the vitals out of the Soviet attack aircraft.
Overshooting was clearly a problem, and some Vampires swept past Shturmovik targets without having engaged.
One such failed pass ended in death for a jet pilot, as he inexplicably flew across the front of another Ilyushin, exposing himself to a quick burst that severed one of his tail planes and sent the Vampire straight into the German soil, although the disoriented pilot arrived a micro second before his upside down aircraft, as the ejector seat fired him into the cold damp earth.
The remaining Vampires set about the IL-10s with renewed vigour, attacking more from the flank, using deflection shooting to overcome the high gain speed that was a problem approaching from the rear.
The air battle moved away eastwards, as the Shturmoviks sought ground level and ran back to their own lines.
The Soviet bombardment recommenced, quickly followed by the artillery of the Guards and Corps units.
“Sarnt-Major, the buggers are on the move now.”
A quick look confirmed Beefy’s warning, but further examination revealed that the angle of their attack had changed, the village of Lützow itself now the focus, rather than the original attempt to circumvent, although some forces still manoeuvred on the flanks.
Charles made a quick decision and levered himself out of the turret.
“You’re in charge, Pats. Back in a mo. Commander out.”
He dropped to the ground, mentally avoiding the question of what he had just stepped in, and ran to the nearby infantry positions.
Rolling into an old shell hole, he found half a dozen determined looking guardsmen lining the rim.
“Who’s in charge, corporal?”
The dirty faced NCO looked around him.
“Guess I am, Sarnt-Major. Our Sergeant copped it, so I’m it. What you need?”
Charles moved up to the rim and lay next to the Corporal.
“Right, as I see it, the Sovs are crossing our front, although still pushing some elements up the flank.”
His finger pointed at each in turn.
“I’m going to hammer them from this flank, but I need to have my own flank secure.”
The Corporal took a quick look.
“The woods?”
“In one, Corporal.”
He grabbed his jaw.
“I’ll grab a Bren section and stick them in here. That’ll cover your front. My boys and I will tuck in on your right side there, keep any nasties that come from the woods off you. That OK, Sarnt-Major?”
Charles appreciated the man’s no-nonsense approach.
“What’s your name, Corporal?”
“Barclay, Sarnt-Major.”
“Good work, Barclay. Use our squawk box if you need anything.”
He slapped the man on the shoulder, took a brief moment to check his route, and then flung himself upwards and ran back to Lady Godiva.
Just prior to the renewed advance of the Soviet forces, a confrontation took place at 15th Motorised’s forward headquarters.
“Why did you wait? Now they have a chance to gather themselves!”
The 16th Tank Corps was a relatively new formation, the previous having gone on to glory and Guards status; none the less, it had a leavening of experienced and competent officers to balance the inexperienced majority. One of the latter was now rounding on two of the former.
Colonel Pavelkhin, commander of the 164th Tank Brigade and de facto commander of the attack force, exchanged glances with his fellow commander, Colonel Maslov of the 15th Motorised.
Both men were bristling with indignation.
“Because your orders clearly stated not to advance until the air attack was complete, Comrade Mayor General.”
“It’s complete… it was complete some time ago… and yet you move out as slow as can be long after our aviators have left the scene. Why’s that? Why is that?”
“There was no warning that the attack had finished, Comrade Mayor General. Your order specifically stated an attack by three regiments… three regiments…”
Pavelkhin forced himself back from the abyss his anger was sending him towards.
“There has only been a two regiment attack so far, Comrade Mayor General.”
Trufanov, commander of 16th Tank Corps, sent spittle flying in all directions as he ranted.
“Any fucking idiot could see the flyers have had a hard time. Any fucking idiot should have seen that and ordered his men forward immediately but not, it fucking seems, the fucking idiots that command have lumbered me with! I thought you both knew how to soldier!”
Pavelkhin, his face bearing the scars of combat with the enemy, and Maslov, whose chest bore a plethora of valour awards earned since the earliest days of 1941, stood stunned, as rebuke after rebuke washed over them, all in front of their men.
“Right, you pair of useless bastards! I’ll do it myself. You’re both relieved.”
Trufanov rattled out his instructions, sending the 164th Tank, 15th Mechanised, and 27th Guards Heavy Tank Regiment’s units back towards the centre, intent on grinding straight over the top of Lützow, regardless of cost, and also dispatched a part of the reformed 39th Guards Heavy Tank Brigade to back them up.
Satisfied with his actions, Trufanov turned and spotted the two Colonels stood to one side.
“Get out, the pair of you. You’re no use to me. Consider yourself arrested. Now… go on, get out.”
Pavelkhin and Maslov saluted smartly and turned on their heels, dreaming of shooting holes in the General as they marched away.
They sought refuge in a clump of trees, from where they could observe what came next.
“Stupid… really stupid…”
Charles was speaking to himself, but the crew understood perfectly.
The enemy advance was moving straight across his position, displaying tender sides to the deadly 17pdr gun.
Charles checked the flank force, and was amazed that it still hadn’t moved forward.
A strange sound behind him brought a moment of amusement, as Corporal Barclay marshalled more men and equipment for his private army.