The small round moved around inside the tank, bouncing off inner surfaces until its power was spent.
Inside, the major workings of the tank were reduced to scrap, and the crew resembled nothing that could be considered to bring to mind anything human.
“On!”
“FIRE!”
A second tungsten dart was launched from Lady Godiva II, and it hit, but the rearmost IS-III had moved perfectly, and the high-speed dart struck the turret side at the worst possible angle.
Charles saw the APDS round disappear into the air.
“Again!”
The massive 122mm gun swung the few inches it needed to bring the Centurion fully into view and both guns fired together.
The APDS round penetrated, but did no damage of note, as it expended itself with a perfect jam in the corner of the bulkhead, having neatly removed the commander’s right leg at the knee.
The 122mm shell did not penetrate, but it killed Lady Godiva II just the same.
Ears ringing, eyes streaming, chest tight from the extreme pressure wave, Charles tried to orient himself.
“Jesus Christ!”
He could see sunlight where no sunlight should exist. Through the modest flicker of flames, he understood what had happened.
The turret had been displaced by the force of the strike.
“Abandon tank! Get out, lads!”
He heard all the calls and pushed himself out of the cupola, suddenly aware that his left arm wasn’t pulling its weight.
Blood betrayed an injury beneath the sleeve of his overalls.
Patterson pushed himself up and out, coughing and spluttering, followed by a waft of smoke.
Bullets pinged off the armour and a scream from the front indicated that at least one had found a target.
Charles and Patterson both instinctively stopped and turned back, seeking information through the gathering smoke.
“It’s Laz… I can see the old bugger… hang on, Sarnt Major…I’ll pass ‘im down…”
Charles dropped off the side and moved forward, helping Patterson with the semi-conscious driver.
“Taken one on the napper… one in the arm, Sarnt-Major.”
Patterson rolled Wild over and into the waiting arms of his tank commander who, ignoring the sudden sharp pain, controlled Wild’s drop to the ground.
Grabbing the neck of Wild’s overalls, Charles dragged the now comatose driver away from the smoking tank.
Exhausted, he flopped down next to three guardsmen who had come forward to help.
One of them was Barclay.
“You lucky bastard, Sarnt-Major!”
A quick look back at the Centurion confirmed Barclay’s observation. The turret, looking decidedly out of shape, had moved backwards and upwards, bursting out of its ring mount.
It was a miracle that no-one had been killed.
Patterson was moving slowly, his uniform smoking, illustrating his close brush with the flames that were now clearly gaining hold in the turret area.
And then…
“Mummy! No, Mummy! Help me!”
Both Patterson and Charles turned to the tank, and were moving before they could think about what was happening.
The pleas turned to screams, turned to animal mewling sounds, turned to screams, to squeals of extreme pain, and back to calls for a mother who couldn’t help.
Roberts was still in the front of the tank.
Patterson leapt up on the vehicle with ease; Charles tried and fell off, his left arm failing him.
“Wingnut! Give me your hand!”
Patterson leant down through the smoke and into the compartment below, ignoring the surge of pain that threatened to overcome him.
“Mummy! Oh God, Mummy! It hurts! Ahhhhh!”
“Wingnut, for the love of god, grab my hand!”
The squeal from the trapped man rose to the highest possible pitch and Patterson felt his skin blister as the fire suddenly became a living thing.
“Wingnut!”
Roberts could only hear his own screeching now, and was oblivious to everything except the fire that was consuming him.
“Pats! We can’t save him! Come back, Pats!”
Patterson rolled away from the hatch and dropped to the ground, oblivious to the modest flames that were eating the sleeve of his overalls.
Charles beat the flames out with his hands and grabbed the dazed gunner, pulling him away from the burning Centurion.
Both men tumbled into the position where Barclay and his men lay, seemingly asleep, but all equally dead, killed by a mortar shell that had done its work efficiently. Only a little blood on the lips of one of Barclay’s men betrayed the possibility of any wounds in the group.
Dragging two of the Soviet soldiers wounded by Charles’ grenade, the two guardsmen rescuers arrived, panting with the effort. The third wounded man had expired, and the burning tank had made their refuge unsafe.
They then dragged all the five wounded men into cover and made off, intending to escape with their lives.
A shout from the nearby 6pdr marked another kill, the very last, as the ammunition was all fired off.
The few survivors of Barclay’s group disappeared as numerous Soviet tanks, supported by infantry, swept over the position.
An occasional wounded Guardsman received a coup de grace from a Soviet, more intent on pursuit than taking prisoners.
The battle moved on.
“Sarnt-Major… psst… Sarnt-Major… Pats… Pats, you fucking lump of lard… wake up… you’re alive… wake up…”
Charles was first to surface through the fog, his eyes squinting in the moonlight that now illuminated a quiet battlefield.
“Beefy?”
“One and the same, Sarnt-Major.”
Pats groaned, his renewed consciousness bringing about an unwelcome awareness of his raw hand.
Laz stared silently, almost unseeingly, his breathing heavy and pronounced.
The moon made a surge in its efforts, and Beefy turned his nose up.
“Blimey, but if you three ain’t been through the wars, ain’t you.”
Charles tried to bring himself up onto his elbows, but found a solid lump preventing him.
It was one of the Russians.
They were both dead, probably bled out from the numerous wounds caused by the grenade. Both had eyes staring off into space, calm, almost serene, but most certainly dead.
Beefy offered his hand and pulled Charles to his feet. The NCO nearly dropped straight back to the earth, but found some strength from somewhere, and fought his way upright.
Beefy nodded towards Lützow.
“The bastards are looting the village and our positions down there. I reckon won’t be long before they fetch up here, Sarnt-Major.”
Charles nodded, the moonlight providing sufficient illumination to observe the locust-like activities of the Soviet soldiery in the wake of the battle.
A shot rang out.
No one needed to ask the question; all three knew what it was, and it spurred them on.
“Right, we need to get the heck out of here. You wounded, Beefy?”
“Not a scratch…”
A roar of aero engines made the group duck instinctively as a flight of aircraft drove in hard.
Death tumbled out of the night sky, as the intruder-configured Havoc bombers of the RAF’s 226 Squadron determined to savage the enemy force that had inflicted such a crushing defeat on the Guards Division, and now threatened the spearhead of British 2nd Army.
“Let’s use this diversion. Can you manage Pats?”
Beefy helped pull the gunner to his feet.
“I reckon so, Sarnt-Major.”
“I’ll bring Laz.”
Charles leant down and paused, straightening back up, easing his back.
“Come on, Laz. Ups a daisy now.”
He leant down again and pulled the driver upright.