Rolling off the hull, Haines brought the weapon up and dropped the first Russian in his tracks.
A panzerfaust struck the earth in front of the tank, causing the officer to stagger to his left and drop to the ground.
Raising himself to his knees, he pulled the trigger again.
Nothing.
‘Fuck’.
He cocked the weapon and repeated the process, this time cutting down the man who was nearly on top of him. The running man was virtually decapitated by the heavy bullets, and flopped lifelessly to the snow.
The Thompson stopped firing, only because the magazine was empty, something Haines failed to register.
A grenade dropped beside him.
Picking it up, he threw it away and ducked.
Meanwhile, more Russians were closing on the tank’s right side, unseen, hoping to get close enough to use grenades.
Another grenade arrived, but too far away to grab, so Haines threw himself towards the safety of the ‘bus’.
This time he collected a piece of shrapnel, the hot metal slicing across his left elbow, just clipping the bone.
Ducking behind the back of his tank, Biffo found himself looking straight at the three men moving in on his tank, unseen until now.
The Thompson stayed silent, empty of bullets.
Realizing the problem, Haines fumbled for a new magazine. However, fighting with tanks was more his speciality; swapping magazines in the face of imminent enemy contact was not, and he dropped the full magazine into the snow at his feet.
“URRAH!”
The first Russian was on top of him, a bayonet thrusting at Biffo’s stomach.
“FUCK OFF!”
The tank officer swung the Thompson so hard that he broke the wooden stock across the soldier’s forehead, staving the man’s skull in.
Throwing the pieces of submachine gun at the next man, Haines grabbed for his service revolver, only to find an empty holster.
The nearest Russian worked the bolt of his rifle and fired on the move, putting a bullet through the fleshy part of Haines’ left arm.
Turning to escape, Haines found the way barred by more Russians from the original tank hunting party.
The first man missed his swing, as Haines ducked under the rifle butt. A rock hard fist connected with the soldier, sending him sprawling back into the man behind him.
Haines screamed as weapons burst into life and bullets spanged off the Sherman’s rear armour.
A ricochet hit him in the meat of his left buttock with such force as to take his legs out from under him, but that was his only other wound.
The majority of the bullets struck their intended targets, cutting the two groups of Russians down.
Haines looked up to see the Artillery Liaison officer and his three men running down, the young Lieutenant pausing only to finish off a screaming enemy soldier with a short burst.
He flopped in beside Haines.
“Thanks.”
That was all the tank officer could manage at the moment.
“Sorry old chap. Cut that a bit fine but I had to sort the support out before I could help. You’ve picked up a Blighty one, by the look of you.”
It was an easy mistake to make, the combination of blood from his wounds and that sprayed from others had transformed Biffo into a red blob.
“I’m fine. Just a couple of nicks. My radio’s out, so what’s occurring, Lieutenant?”
“Air’s delayed, Major, but we seem to be holding just fine, and, once the Brylcreams get here, we can send Uncle Joe’s boys packing.”
“Give me a hand, Giles”
Haines offered up his good arm, and the artillery officer assisted him to his feet.
“Thanks again, and we’ll talk after this is over. Now, keep at it.”
Herbert Giles, nineteen today, saluted and bolted back to the OP in the Castello’s North-East tower.
‘Good, he’s got them up to the tanks.’
Moving his focus, Kozlov was less satisfied with the progress of the other two battalions.
Clearly, they had made the enemy trench positions in a few places, but it was plain to see that large numbers of men had gone to ground, neither pushing forward nor engaging, just keen to hug Mother Earth and stay alive.
“Tell Second and Third to get moving. Get the fucking bridges… now!”
The radio officer chattered away urgently, relaying the Regimental Commander’s orders.
“Comrade Polkovnik, no reply from Second Battalion. Third Battalion reports commander killed, his second in Command has taken over and is pushing into the enemy line.”
Kozlov swivelled to look around him.
“Where’s the anti-aircraft support. Get them on the radio now!”
Two ZSU-37s, a precious commodity only recently allocated to the 7th Tank Corps, were actually already closed up in support. Kozlov had missed them in amongst the smoke and explosions.
The need to contact the flak commander disappeared, as the Gaz-mounted quad Maxims came into view, spreading out to cover the battlefield.
“Comrade Polkovnik, the flak commander reports being in position.”
Kozlov grumbled to himself.
‘Late, and I’ll give you a kick up the fucking ass when this is done.’
Returning to concentrate on his infantry, he found himself unable to locate any of the First Battalion, but the sight of two of the enemy tanks burning told him that they were still there and fighting.
His own tank support, now under less fire from the enemy AFVs, had closed up and was working well in support of the infantry.
He swore he could see small groups of enemy soldiers falling back over the Ledra.
Before he could radio the question, it was answered, as his eyes confirmed the enemy retreat.
‘Perfect’.
“Order Mayor Golin to attack. Plan A.”
Plan ‘A’ was simple; straight up Route 463 to the summit, but a Royal Engineers officer had already negated it by dropping the main road bridge with the twist of an electrical exploder.
Plan ‘B’ came into being immediately; a surge over the eastern engineer bridges and up the nearest track to the castle.
Major Golin’s force was modest in size, but all mobile, with vehicles acquired from anywhere and everywhere. The soldiers were from the tank brigade’s SMG unit and anti-tank riflemen from one of his own AT platoons, and the plan was to deliver them straight into the Castello di Susans, wresting the dominant feature from the Allies and forcing them to withdraw.
“Your order for Plan ‘B’ has been acknowledged, Comrade Polkovnik.”
Turning to watch the exploitation unit advance, his view was interrupted by white light, as a newly positioned Bofors gun started chuntering, sending 40mm shells into the sky.
‘Govno!’
The tell-tale sounds of attacking aircraft reached his ears in an instant.
“Tell all stations, enemy aircraft warning. Quickly man!”
Perhaps, he mused, it was unnecessary, but some in the vehicles might not hear until too late. And for someone it was already too late, as one of the attacking tanks came apart in a vicious explosion.
Rocket after rocket came streaking in, as the Allied aircraft conducted a line attack, sweeping across the battlefield, virtually parallel to, but north of, Route 84, starting on the left flank of his assault, discharging their weapons and turning out over the Tagliamento, before coming round again in a seemingly endless wheeling motion.
His AA weapons filled the sky with tracers, and three of the enemy were cut down in as many minutes as the light weapons had their chances optimized by the low-level attack pattern.
Not without their own losses, as tanks and infantry paid the price in blood and tears.