Kozlov now realized that the British withdrawal had been planned, performed to get the infantry south of the Leda, and to put distance between the two forces to avoid friendly casualties.
The simple radio message reporting the death of his second in command and friend, Koranin, was sidelined for later and quieter moment, and he kept his grief to himself.
One of Golin’s vehicles jinked to avoid a hail of rockets, successfully avoiding a direct hit. The power of the explosions still claimed it, flipping the light lorry over onto its side and crushing most of the men clinging to the sides of the rear compartment. Only a few emerged, stunned, shocked, into a hail of Bren and Vickers bullets.
‘They’re across the river! Yes! We’re going to do it! We’re going to fucking do it!’
His AA vehicles started taking hits, as the enemy armour switched its focus in an effort to take the heat off the fliers.
No sooner had Haines returned to the tank than he was forced to quit it again. ‘Biffo’s Bus’ was now burning steadily, a Soviet tank round having crossed the battlefield from Haines’ left flank and carved into the engine compartment.
They had all escaped, only the tank officer carrying any injury, and took refuge in an alternate position belonging to another tank.
Mortar shells, aimed at the recently displaced Rifle Brigade, started to arrive amongst the Lancers’ tanks, making life uncomfortable for the crew, as lumps of metal and frozen earth flew in all directions.
“Stumpy, I’m off to find a radio and get this fuck up sorted out. You get the boys up to the castle, ok?”
Stumpy Clair knew better than to argue, and took the proffered Thompson, his nose turning up at the shattered wood stock.
Haines took a tight hold on his revolver, judged the fall of mortar shells and, at the right moment, slapped his driver’s shoulder, sending the group on their way.
Once happy with his crew’s progress, Biffo Haines tensed himself for the rush to the nearest Lancer tank, some two hundred yards to his right, and slightly downhill.
His attention was consumed by the sound of aero engines, and his aircraft recognition skills were brought into play, as a swarm of Bristol Beaufighters bore down in line formation, discharging rockets along the advancing Soviet forces.
He watched as tanks were hit and infantrymen were scattered, knocking the momentum out of the Soviet advance in seconds. Although cheered by the timely intervention, his heart also sank as enemy AA weapons knocked two of the leading British aircraft out of the sky.
604 Squadron RAF had been disbanded in April 1945, but had been brought back into the Allied inventory and sent to Italy, where it was married up with Beaufighters not required by the USAAF.
They were, in the main, experienced men, but the presence of numerous AA weapons took them by surprise, and a third Beau was clawed from the air, flipping over and ploughing into the ground in a cartwheeling ball of fire.
Pulling himself up on the tank, he rapped his revolver on the metal three times.
“It’s Biffo. Don’t shit yourselves. Need the radio and quick.”
The tank commander’s head emerged, one eye closed by swelling from an impact with something unforgiving inside the tank.
“Sir, warm day. Squadron net I assume?”
Haines, struggling with the leads, just grunted.
Sergeant Brian Timms was a veteran, recently returned to the Lancers. Handing his radio headset to Haines, he ducked down into the tank and changed channels.
Biffo stuck his head inside before sending any messages.
“Hit the AA stuff. They’re murdering the Brylcreams!”
The turret shifted slightly in response, and Haines ducked down to avoid the blast as the 76mm sent a Quad AA lorry to Valhalla.
“Cassino-six, all Cassino call-signs. First and second sections, concentrate on the flak, repeat, concentrate on the flak. Cassino-Six out.”
Taking a moment to assess the battlefield, Haines saw a problem.
‘Oh for fuck’s sake!’
“Sergeant Timms, switch to the arty channel now!”
A grimy hand sprung from the hatch, the thumbs up clear in its meaning.
“Calliope-Two-Six, Cassino-Six, over.”
“Go ahead Cassino-Six, Calliope-Two-Six, over.”
“Calliope-Two-Six, enemy mobile force is over the river, cutting round to our right. Stop the…”
A force not unlike a speeding train threw Haines from the tank, as a mortar shell landed mere feet away, tossing him nearly twenty yards and into a shallow depression, occupied only by several dead Soviet soldiers.
He still retained part of the headset into which, in his confused state, he continued to speak.
The destruction of Timms’ tank brought him back to reality, as virtually simultaneous strikes penetrated the Easy Eight.
The gunner and loader emerged, blackened and raw. The driver’s hatch popped up and hands, surrounded by flame, tried to lever the screaming man of the inferno.
The gunner, eyes wide and staring, jumped from the tank and ran screaming, his nerve gone, broken by the destruction and horrors created inside the tank.
Although wounded and in great pain, Reed, the loader, reached down into the commander’s hatch and pulled on something barely recognizable as a man.
Haines shook himself back into reality and moved forward, and was immediately forced back onto the cold ground as more mortar shells arrived.
As he rose again, Reed had got the hideously wounded Timms half out of the hatch, a task made easier by the Sergeant’s lack of arms, removed by the second shell, but made more difficult by the flames that licked around the NCO and ate away at clothing and flesh in equal measure.
The screams were awful, every movement an agony for both men.
Timms’ screams were silenced in a brilliant flash of orange, as the tank brewed, incinerating the Sergeant in an instant, and converting Reed into a fireball whose agony was manifested in the most awful, most ear-piercing squeals imaginable.
A horrified Haines reached for his revolver but found nothing. He was unarmed again.
Reed’s screams burned into his very soul, and the tank officer could do nothing to put the poor man out of his misery.
He remembered the dead Russians, and flung himself back, seeking a weapon.
A Soviet mortar shell dropped next to Reed and obliterated the awful sight before Haines’ hand closed around a DP-28.
Flopping back into the depression, Haines gathered himself, becoming aware of the British artillery landing nearby, clearly now redirected, which then reminded him of the change in direction made by the enemy mobile force.
He moved up to the edge and saw hell coming straight at him.
The British artillery had claimed some of the enemy vehicles, but the rest had changed direction again, seemingly intent on running over his position on the way to the Castello.
Retaining enough presence of mind to grab the metal box which clearly held spare ammo for the weapon, and then fumbling with its unfamiliar grip, Haines took aim and pulled the trigger, the light machine-gun answering his command by spitting bullets at the lead vehicle.
Considering it was his first effort with the DP, he was surprised to see his bullets strike home, the men in the lorry cab disappearing behind splintered glass that went red in places.
Above the cab, a man with the same weapon fired back, but lacked the stability offered by the snow and earth around Haines, missing by some distance.
The lorry came to a halt and then started to roll back down the slope, causing others behind to manoeuvre out of its way.
Haines was too busy engaging other targets to notice it roll over, flinging out those who had not jumped or who were already dead.