A 6pdr anti-tank gun was pushed into place, the men involved glowing red with the effort.
Nearby, a Vickers MG group was setting up, dragging wood into a rough wall to protect the crew from harm.
The lead elements of the Soviet force started to take fire from the village and environs, less than before admittedly, but still accurate.
Smoke and flame marked British success followed by British success, the Centurions proving equal to the task.
“Pats, steady. No firing yet, come right twelve degrees, range twelve hundred. IS-IIs, and a lot of them.”
The turret whirred as Patterson sited the gun.
“Oh bloody hell.”
Fifteen tanks, a mix of T-34s and IS-IIs from 27th Guards Heavy Tank Regiment, combined with seventeen IS-IIs and IS-IIIs from First Battalion, 39th Guards Heavy Tank Brigade, were flanking the main Soviet attack, seemingly intent on passing very close to where Lady Godiva II lay.
Charles kept his thoughts to himself this time.
“Unlike that lot, this commander seems to know his business.”
The heavy tanks were manoeuvring well, some stopping, some moving forward, one group covering the other as they alternated.
Clinging to each tank was a grape of infantry from the 39th’s SMG Company.
Charles stuck his head out and shouted at the passing Barclay.
“Corporal! Your AT gun. No use against the big buggers. Tell them to concentrate on the T-34s. You get the infantry all to yourself. Good luck.”
Barclay’s reply was lost in the whoosh of passing shells, as some of the advancing tanks engaged the likely looking hump that was the concealed Centurion.
“Are we on?”
“On.”
“FIRE!”
Godiva spat venom at the approaching mob and achieved a hit, without penetration. The infantry bailed off the tank at speed, self-preservation lending them wings.
“Target hit. Again.”
“On.”
“FIRE!”
The tank, jinking to avoid a repetition, took Patterson’s shell in the rear drive, knocking the track off and slewing the IS-II, exposing the offside.
“Side shot, Pats. Fire when on.”
Pats shouted and sent the solid shot down range.
It punched through the side armour and into the engine, bouncing back through the metal that separated the crew from all the motor paraphernalia.
Two men emerged and the IS-II was out of the fight.
There was no time for celebration, as more targets required their urgent attention.
The 6pdr claimed a kill with its first shot, the whole Soviet crew abandoning their vehicle.
Just to make sure, a second round was applied to the stationary tank, and the smoke left no doubt that it was beyond use.
Soviet artillery, called in by the commander of the 39th, started to drop to the rear of their position.
It was quickly corrected.
The Vickers and its servants simply disappeared; one moment firing at the grapes of infantry, the next a smoking hole that yielded no clues to the whereabouts of either weapon or men.
Shrapnel pattered off the Centurion’s armour, giving the tankers an idea of the hell endured by the Guardsmen outside.
“FIRE!”
Patterson placed a single shot perfectly between hull and turret, killing the IS-II and her crew in one hit.
“Shit! Target tank, left two degrees, fire when on!”
‘Jesus! It’s a three!’
The shell spanged off the turret armour in such a way that both Patterson and Charles doubted the Russians even knew they had been hit.
Another shell hit the tank in its offside, probably one of ‘B’ Squadron’s vehicles making the most of a flank shot.
The IS-III stopped dead, and black smoke blossomed from its ruptured engine compartment.
Its 122mm gun belched flame and the huge shell seemed to come straight down the line of Patterson’s sights.
The slightest of pings indicated that the lump of metal had kissed the top of the commander’s cupola.
Their unknown saviour in the village completed the job, and the Grenadier’s Bren gunner mowed the escaping four man crew down without a moment’s hesitation.
Scream from Laz Wild was immediately followed by the clang of a solid hit.
“Laz?”
Wild’s voice betrayed his fear.
“Came straight at me, that one… nearly shat meself.”
“On!”
“FIRE!”
Charles said the word automatically as his mind worked another problem.
The breech of the gun sprang back into the turret as the recoil tried to rip the 17pdr off its mounts.
“Solid kill, Sarnt-Major.”
Sneaking a quick look, the recipient of the AP shell was already brewing up dramatically.
The heat, smoke, and fumes were all building up inside Lady Godiva, despite the extractors going full blast and having the commander’s hatch open.
Sticking his head further out, Charles tried to clear his stinging eyes to take in the bigger picture.
Whilst the ‘private army’ had done good work from the flank, the Soviet advance was virtually upon the defensive positions in Lützow itself and, to the east of the shattered village, already through.
‘B’ Squadron seemed to consist solely of smoking wrecks, although the numbers didn’t tally, which meant, to Charles’ reckoning, that some had made a fighting withdrawal.
Which brought him nicely to his own dilemma.
‘Stick in this position which gives us reasonable cover or move…’
CLANG!
Charles had ducked instinctively as the white blob tore across the ground towards him.
A solid shot had struck the gun mantlet, imitating Thor’s Hammer at its most violent.
It failed to penetrate and Patterson was already seeking the perpetrator.
“On!”
“FIRE!”
The Centurion rocked as it sought its revenge.
Charles returned to his mental exercise.
‘… or move and attract every shot going…’
“Infantry, close in, right side!”
Charles grabbed two grenades from the ready rack, primed one and stuck his head further out.
Three Soviet soldiers had managed to get close, avoiding Barclay’s covering force.
“Grenade!”
The Guards tank commander tossed the fizzing bomb at the small group and ducked.
The sharp crack was accompanied by screams.
A swift look confirmed all three enemy down and out of the fight, although none seemed to have been killed in the blast.
A pair of guardsmen arrived, one to cover the other, whilst the second dragged two of the wounded enemy into the small depression where the other survivor had been propelled.
Charles debated the wiseness of the act of kindness for a second, and then found other things to do.
“There’s more! Jesus! Peril, right side… quickly!”
One of the shotgun shells was loaded up and, once the turret had rotated swiftly onto the rush of infantry, discharged to impressive effect.
There was no need for a second shot, only a bag in which to put the pieces of what had been four men.
For Charles, the problems kept on coming.
Two IS-IIIs came round the edge of the wood, their distinctive shapes appearing and disappearing in the gaps between the trees.
“Target tanks, both IIIs, right eleven degrees, Load Sabot.”
Patterson moved the turret and his sights filled with the frying pan turret of an IS-III.
He dropped the gun’s elevation the smallest amount.
“On!”
“FIRE!”
The APDS round left the gun at high velocity, the sabot split open, leaving the smaller diameter tungsten core to make the short journey alone.
As one piece of the discarded alloy sabot nearly struck one of the wounded Russians, the APDS round went through the IS-IIIs lower hull as if it was made of cardboard.