“Drook-one-zero, Malinky-two-two. Unknown,” from memory Fusilov summoned the correct map code, “Am moving up to point ‘Panyedelnik’ immediately. Will report, over and out.”
Knowing the rest of the recon unit had heard, Fusilov concentrated on fighting his own vehicle.
Addressing the driver, the NCO talked through his intended route.
“Right then Comrade, bring her forward, stay in the woods until that hedge line, then hard right at speed and tuck in behind the buildings on that junction there,” he indicated the red brick farm buildings at the junction of the 7709 and 7707, despite the fact that the driver could not see him.
The light tank surged forward before the driver brought his charge under full control, nervous of taking the thinly armoured tank into what he considered harm’s way.
The radio crackled into life.
“All units, Drook-one-zero. Strike called on ‘Vtornik’. Do not approach. Out.”
Antonov had decided to flush the game, his heavily armoured IS-II’s already shaking out on the outskirts of UnterWolfhertsweiler.
In under a minute, 120mm mortar shells were falling in and around point ‘Vtornik’.
The building shook all around them, waterfalls of dust cascading over frightened men.
“Steady guys, steady. They’re just chucking shells. They don’t know we’re here. Just keep your heads down.”
H Company’s senior non-com was one of the oldest in the US Army, having served with Pershing in World War One and now, with Patton, in World War Two and again in…
‘Whatever the goddamn hell this goddamn latest fuck up is called!’
Winchester Mearns did not have a spare ounce of fat on his five foot ten body, but he had more wrinkles than was considered acceptable for any three men.
His eyes seemed permanently closed, his facial skin collapsed in around them.
Even when using his beloved BAR, there was barely a crack between the flesh through which to see.
Nevertheless, he rarely missed, and there was little that evaded his gaze.
“Bazooka team, front and centre!”
The T70 seemed intent on closing his position, and Mearns was intent on ensuring its silence.
Slapping the bazooka man on the shoulder, Mearns picked out a position.
“Haul your ass over the road to the pile,” he indicated a stand of felled trunks, some creative infantryman already having constructed an all-round position much like a frontiersman’s cabin without the roof.
“Take him as soon as, but make sure you get the sonofabitch. First shot ok?”
A nod was all he got, the two-man team already steeling themselves to run the gauntlet of mortar shells.
Mearns clicked his fingers at two riflemen.
“Stand ready as back up if I holler.”
Again, Mearns received no reply, his men trained up to the hilt and confident in their senior man.
Checking on the T70, and noting it had slowed, he gave the word.
“Move out.”
The bazooka team slipped swiftly out of the ruined front door, and was safely hidden in the wooden redoubt within seconds.
The tank moved from right to left as Mearns watched, turning just a few yards short of the road, and facing the red brick farmhouse in which the US troops were posted.
“All units, Druck-zero-one, cease fire on ‘Panyedelnik’. Out.”
‘I swear I saw movement.’
“Do you see anything?”
The driver’s response was immediate.
“No, Comrade Serzhant, nothing.”
Not satisfied, Fusilov considered sending a couple of shells into the ruined farmhouse.
The radio blared loudly in his ear, a stiff reminder of his mission from Antonov dissuading him.
The T70 moved slowly forward.
A slap on the gunner’s back indicated that the loader had connected up the rocket grenade, and the bazooka was ready to fire.
The M9 fired a 2.39” diameter M6A3 hollow-charge shell, capable of penetrating anything up to 102mm of armour.
The front armour of the T70 was 60mm at best, and that on the front of the turret only.
Coolly following the track of his target, the gunner aimed for the spot immediately below the driver’s hatch, where the armour was thinner.
The driver died instantly.
Fusilov felt the wave of pain as pieces of the tank and driver were propelled into him, bone and metal fragments penetrating his lower limbs in a hundred places.
He keyed the radio as he triggered the machine-gun, his tracers reaching out and into the little pile of wood he had so stupidly failed to spot.
Both men and bazooka were struck, the DT machine-gun fatally defeating the cover as the two men hugged the earth.
“Malinky-two-two, enemy infantry in ‘Voskresenye’, strength unknown. Am knocked out and abandoning. Out.”
As if to emphasise his words, flames started to lick out of the drivers hatch, blown open by the blast. The heat build up inside the stricken light tank gave Fusilov all the encouragement he needed.
Fusilov grabbed the edge of the turret and pulled, but his legs were unable to push upwards.
Panic started to seize him, and small animal like sounds accompanied each exertion, sounds that grew in their intensity, urgency, and pitch. His strength left him, as each effort drained him of more of his reserves, and the blood flowed freely from ruined legs.
“Poor commie bastard.”
Master Sergeant Mearns spoke to no one in particular, the sight of the hands urgent scrabbling at the turret ring betraying the struggle going on out of sight.
The sounds of terror reached their ears, Fusilov breaking down from professional soldier to terrified animal, as horrible death stalked him within the confines of the small tank.
“Fuck it.”
The ancient BAR was placed against the wall.
“Corporal, you’re in charge til I get back, ok son?”
And without waiting for a reply, Mearns was gone.
Fusilov had been wounded before. Indeed, he had received burns before, when his T-60 had been knocked out by a mine in the winter of ’43.
That had been child’s play compared to the pain of being slowly roasted alive.
He gathered himself for a final effort, willing his legs to bend and find some purchase to aid his escape.
Squealing with the pain, his left knee moved and found something, he knew not what, but sufficient to give him a small extra lift upwards.
He repositioned his right arm, the weight of his body perilously supported by his knee.
His arm took the weight, and he levered himself upwards, bringing his face into the afternoon light, partly brought by the rich sunshine, but also contributed to by the flames from his vehicle.
The fire surged, licking at his bleeding leg wounds, causing agony at new levels.
He pushed upwards again, but found no strength and no more leverage, his damaged limbs refusing to function.
Head above the rim, he could see a soldier, an enemy soldier at that, running in the crouch of a veteran, speeding towards the tank.
He screamed, waving his hand in joy, dislodging his tenuous hold and slipping back down inside the tank.
Gratefully, he looked up as the American mounted the burning tank. Holding up his right hand, Fusilov waited to be pulled out.
Two .45 bullets blew his head apart.
Mearns, sucking air greedily after his exertions, slid two replacement rounds into his Colt’s magazine, holstered it, and picked up his BAR.
He looked into the face of the young soldier, whose wide-eyes silently questioned what the Master Sergeant had just done.