“Not one of those bloody swine crosses that bridge, Hamilton, not one. Clear?”
The man grinned at the unusually colourful language of their beloved officer, revealing an absence of teeth, not suffered in combat, but caused by his love of the barley sugar sticks made by his confectioner father.
“Not one bloody swine, aye Sir!”
A slap on the man’s back and Ramsey was gone.
Next, the PIAT section got their orders, the two weapons directed to the task of destroying the lead T-34’s on the bridge.
The task became easier as somewhere to the Black Watch’s front, a bazooka put a shell into the side of one of the tanks, knocking the vehicle out of the fight as the crew bolted for safety.
More firing erupted as the defending GI’s took advantage of the slackened fire to mow down their tormentors. The whole crew were killed or wounded within seconds, the open bridge providing no cover as they ran.
The surviving Black Watch Officers and NCO’s were shaking the Jocks out, forming a firing line, ready for the Soviet infantry.
Cupping his hands around his mouth, Ramsey yelled a warning.
“Watch for friendlies to the front, boys! There’s still some cousins there, watch out for them!”
As he spoke, another T-34 nosed onto the bridge, intent on maintaining the advance.
The Comet had manoeuvred slyly and popped out in prime position, the woods just to the south of the rail bridge giving it quality cover until it was too late for the Russian tank.
Another APDS shot sped across the water and hit down low, passing through the tank and out the other side.
A serious disadvantage of the APDS was that its high penetration often took it through targets, and the modest explosive power of the smaller shell was sometimes insufficient to kill the tank, even if it exploded inside.
This shell lost on all counts.
Griffiths put his head out to check the target, and was surprised to find his immediate location more smokey since his arrival. The smoke was from the Comet’s engine, and it should not have been there.
As he ducked inside, a heavy bullet pinged off his cupola, an AT rifleman on the far bank chancing his arm, and coming close to ending the Sergeant’s life.
“Check the engine, Drives. It’s bollockin out smoke!”
Trooper Droves, or ‘Drives’ to his mates, swept his eyes over the gauges, although he knew everything felt right with ‘Lady Hamilton’. The tank had been named by the previous tank commander, Herbert Nelson, now in hospital in Blighty, where they were hopeful his sight could be saved.
“All’s tickety-boo, Sarge.”
“No it fucking ain’t, Drives. Check again.”
Droves did the full routine again and spotted that the oil reading had changed from a few seconds before.
“Oil levels dropping, Sarge. Must be a leak. Not serious at the moment.”
Griffiths pondered that for a second.
“Massage the engine for a while and keep the revs down. Once the bastards have buggered off, we can have a gander and sort it.”
To some, it would be enough reason to fall back, but Griffiths was made of sterner stuff, and ‘Lady Hamilton’s’ crew accepted his decision without quibble.
Beside the Sergeant, the telephone squawked, announcing some infantry type outside. Fixed to the rear of the Comet was a handset for use by supporting troops.
“Room Service?”
“Maybe later. Major Ramsey of the Black Watch here. To whom do I speak?”
“Sergeant Griffiths, 2nd Derbyshires, Sir.”
“Hot day, Sergeant, and likely to get hotter. Can you see tanks at your one o’clock, through the trees there?”
A pause as the tank commander strained his eyes in that direction.
“No, Sir. All I can see is greenery, and infantry.”
“Well never mind. I assure you they are there, about a dozen of them, from what we can make out. They will make a surge shortly, so stand ready. We and the Yanks have AT weapons on this side of the bridge, but we need you to even the odds quickly. Keep them at bay if you can. You ok for ammunition?”
“Yes, Sir, provided they only send the one tank battalion, we should be fine.”
Ramsey was unsure whether that was humour, bravado, or pessimism, but decided he would let the man be, as his job was a difficult one.
“Bottom line, Sergeant. We hold where we are. There is no alternative plan. They do not cross the river, or we are sunk. Clear?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I’m leaving a squad here to provide you with close protection. They will keep their eyes skinned for tank-hunters. The rest is down to you. Good luck, Griffiths.”
“Thanks, Sir, You too.”
Replacing the receiver, Griffiths took a swift look through the vision block, but could not see the officer.
“Well, you’ll be glad to know that our Jock friends have found a dozen Soviet tanks for us to play with.”
He ignored the groans.
“We are it, the only tank. Those Red shitehawks don’t get close to the bridge, and that’s the bloody short of it. The Major seems to know his business, and he’s left us some friends to watch our back.”
Droves summed it up quite nicely.
“Bollocks!”
Bullets kicked up at his heels, but the Black Watch officer made it safely to the forward defensive position, as did McEwan, although the latter sported a painful nick to his left calf.
“Master Sergeant Hässler reporting, Sir.”
“One moment…, Sergeant.”
Ramsey wheezed. The rush over open ground, the acrid smoke coming from the Comet and other sources, all combined to make breathing difficult.
“Let me… get my… breath.”
Producing a pack of Lucky Strike’s, Hässler took one and passed them on, Rosenberg and another GI took one a piece. The other US soldier declined the offer.
McEwan eyed the cigarettes with longing.
“Want one, Jock?”
“Aye, that I do, Sarnt. Thank ye.”
A hand signal to the soldier who did not smoke sent the man to the edge of the position, eyes firmly fixed on the approaches.
Breathing now stable, Ramsey grabbed one of his own cigarettes, raising a hand to stop the Sergeant’s apology.
“What’s your situation, Sergeant?”
“I’m down to half my doughs from forty-eight starters. Managed to evacuate the wounded during the last lull, but that was awhile ago, and the commies ain’t taking time outs anymore.”
Ramsey could never get used to the American way of speaking.
“How about ammunition?”
“Plenty of it, of all shapes and sizes, but I am down to two bazookas now, Sir.”
Hässler pointed down a small off shoot from his position, the beginnings of a veritable arsenal in view.
“Splendid. Good work, Sergeant. I’ve got my chaps spread in a line behind you at the moment. Fields of fire seem fine, so long as you chaps keep your head down. I’ve also jollied up the tank boys.”
Hässler could never get used to the British way of speaking.
For once, Rosenberg stayed silent, a painfully bruised elbow keeping his mind occupied.
The Master Sergeant stubbed his cigarette out and grabbed his canteen.
“So, Sir, what happens next? We have stopped the big red machine, but it ain’t broke yet.”
“True enough, Sergeant. If I’m any judge, our Red friends are gathering themselves for something more complicated.”
He took the offered canteen, and was surprised to find it contained water.
A quizzical look drew a response.
“We lost our supply of quality booze when we were sent to hospital. Haven’t managed to find time to replace it yet, Major.”
Ramsey could not help but like the man, so he nodded to McEwan, whose hand was suddenly filled with a full canteen.