by Colin Gee
Leaving some of the AT company to cover Braun’s battle with their SP guns, he ordered the anti-tank guns on the heights to prepare to move back.
In the Soviet positions, the loss of commanders had been deeply felt, and most of those capable of rational thought plumbed for remaining in cover, rather than actively interfering in the withdrawal of Camerone’s prime attack group.
But not all.
The Schwarzpanther rocked as the shell slammed into its flank, causing its shot to fly harmlessly away.
Braun, shaken by the hit but still focussed, estimated that the anti-tank gun was too far away to run down before it got another shot off, so he grabbed the MG-34 again and did what he could.
His driver performed the standard manoeuvre and presented an angled target to the enemy’s firing point and hit the throttle, the idea being to increase the chances of a defection by angling all surfaces, as well as making the tank harder to hit.
However, the latter worked both ways, and both the turret coax and Braun’s MG went far wide of the mark.
The next enemy shell missed the rear of the tank by the smallest of margins and Braun, having counted the time it took the enemy to reload, made the decision.
“Driver, left turn, run it down, full speed, man!”
The turbine engine brought the tank up to its full speed and the race between crews began, with only one winner, for whom life was the prize.
The hull MG stammered and made a difference, the AT gun’s commander spinning away as bullets virtually severed his left arm at the shoulder.
Starshina Ivan Balyan, holder of the Hero of the Soviet Union award for his bravery whilst fighting the Legion in the Alsace, fired off his Tokarev in futile resistance before Braun smashed the life from him with another burst.
Within a second the crew’s nerve broke and they scattered, not quick enough for the aimer, who was struck by the trails of the gun as the Legion tank smashed into the D-44 gun and propelled nearly two tons of metal in the direction of the fleeing man.
His screams were increased as the weight of the Schwarzpanther pushed down on the weapon, crushing him across the waist and almost cutting him in two.
Braun and his gunners took out the remaining crew with controlled bursts as ammunition ran low.
Behind them and to the extreme right of Braun’s attack, one of his platoon’s tank took a MACE hit on the front sprocket.
The track simply shattered and the heavy sprocket flew in all directions.
Braun watched impotently as the turret swung to engage the MACE, all the time yelling for the men to get out of the vehicle.
The Hungarian gunner made no mistake and the heavy rocket struck the nearside perfectly, just behind the driver’s position.
After a moment, one man emerged, clutching the ruins of an arm, his uniform smoking and smouldering.
A heat haze started to embrace the destroyed tank as its contents began to burn.
The wounded man rolled off the turret and onto the engine deck, where he was picked off by one of the Hungarian guard troops.
The body lay on the grilles and was ravaged and consumed by the fire that engulfed the battle tank.
The anonymous ex-SS panzer soldier was the last casualty of the relief attempt, as two green star flares rose high and signalled the successful extrication of the assault force.
Braun charged his surviving vehicles over the bridge, all the time keeping heads down behind him, using up the last of his MG ammunition to remind any braver Soviet soldiers of their decided fragility.
Durand communicated the success to Knocke, who immediately ordered the whole group back to new positions along Route 9.
“A brilliant piece of work it seems, mon Général!”
Knocke could not deny D’Estlain’s observation that the swift counter-attack into the rear of the enemy force had been a superb piece of soldiering, and he would certainly ensure that whoever had commanded received the recognition he deserved.
But for now, even though his situation appeared easier, there was still much to concern him.
The lack of contact with Emmercy was his prime concern, but the DRH Kampfgruppe reported being in contact with Legion units in and around Klimontów, and fighting in progress in the village itself.
Whilst the Grossdeutschland reports were right in most respects, they were wrong in that the fighting in Klimontów was not resistance as such, simply mopping up by Soviet units keen to open the route completely.
Elsewhere, Haefali was struggling to maintain a complete front as he withdrew.
Lavalle had insisted that the Camerone headquarters be relocated to Bukowa and not remain in the front line, which order Knocke tactfully refused, stating his reasons for remaining, at least until Haefali’s force was re-established on the Route 9 defensive line.
Accepting the Camerone commander’s reasoning, Lavalle set about getting more of the chattels of war on line and ready for use.
The 1er Division’s 1er Brigade had encountered enemy forces on the fringe of the Alma area and was unable to progress, especially as it was further impeded by more enemy air attacks.
The new plan, direct from 1er French Army Headquarters, was to use the situation to their advantage, continue to ‘feign’ disarray and withdrawal in the Camerone area, whilst encircling the attacking enemy force, using Alma and the 1er Division in the south, running adjacent to the Vistula, and uncommitted units of the DRH’s 101st Korps in the north, namely the 116th Panzer Division and 3rd Fallschirmjager Division, forming pincers to encircle the encirclers.
When Knocke had been apprised of the plan he bit back his acid observation on feigned disarray.
But, he felt, with the new plan, and reinforcements arriving to his north and south, the worst was now over.
Alas for Camerone, the worst was yet to come.
Stelmakh received the breathless man’s report as he sucked heavily on a captured cigarette.
“I saw them myself, Comrade Mayor. They went into the village and drove out to the northwest. I swear I can see no one left in it, which means…”
Stelmakh interrupted.
“Which means the road to Sulisɫawice is free and ours for the taking.”
“Yes, Comrade Mayor.”
“Excellent work, Comrade Mladshy Leytenant. We’ll talk more of this after the battle, but for now get your men ready to move quickly. Once my Comrade driver has finished his tinkerings, we’ll move out as one and strike straight through Skwirzowa and attack Sulisɫawice before the bastards can get settled. You’ve done well. Keep it up.”
The happy young officer saluted and went to get his platoon of the SMG company ready to do his commander’s bidding.
Meanwhile, Stelmakh turned his attention back to the man on the rear of ‘Krasny Suka’, who was sat looking at him, feigned disdain on his face.
“Tinkerings is it, Comrade Mayor?”
Stelmakh slapped the man’s foot and passed the half-smoked cigarette upwards.
“A slip of the tongue, Comrade Driver. This is no time for your word games anyway, Stepanov, so what progress have you made?”
“Tinkerings complete, Comrade Mayor. Fuel filter was blocked, same as with the other two.”
The delay in advance had been because two of the IS-IV had experienced engine failures, both of which had been quickly traced to contaminated fuel.
“So, we can advance?”
“I was thinking more of a leisurely drive back to Lublin… or maybe Moscow, Comrade Mayor.”
“Excellent idea… we’ll go via the village ahead. Now get yourself ready, you sad bastard.”
Stelmakh mounted the tank as Stepanov moved across the turret and dropped into his driving position, ready to take ‘Krasny Suka’ back into battle.
Arranging the headset for comfort, he broadcast to the waiting regiment.
He called each units commander in turn, checking that there were no problems and that each was ready to play his part.
When it was over, he
double-checked.
“Chorniy-odin, Chorniy-odin, any unit not ready to move immediately, report now, over.”
There was silence.
“Chorniy-odin, all units Chorniy… advance!”
The 6th moved forward towards the undefended village and to Sulisɫawice beyond.
Two minutes beforehand, heading south on Route 9, T-54s and mechanised infantry of the 1st Guards Mechanised Rifle Division had disturbed the horizon and swept down off the heights, heading for their objective at full speed.
0611 hrs, Tuesday. 1st April 1947, Sulisɫawice, Poland.
Knocke was taking a breath of fresh air, one that he immediately contaminated with cigarette smoke, leaving D’Estlain to look after things whilst the early morning sun helped clear his mind.
Hässelbach had slipped a steaming hot mug of coffee into his hand and moved away without a word, sensing his leader needed some space.
Alternating between the wonderful fresh coffee and his rich tobacco, Knocke felt a calm descend, one that momentarily expelled his feelings of unrest and foreboding.
The leading edge of the heights to the north moved as he casually observed it, small black dots dancing on it like ants.
With the mug to his lips, Knocke screwed up his eyes, needing to know what caused the strange apparition, whilst inside he sensed he understood things only too well.
Shouts rose from those posted on watch and his worst fears became a reality.
“Alarm! Alarm! Alarm!”
Knocke’s decision to arrange his reserve in a defensive posture was proved correct, although it had been arranged more with a defence against the east than the north.
None the less, the extra units from the Corps reserve were positioned with the north in mind, and they were already coming to readiness to deal with the large force that was pouring down the slope around Wólka Gieraszowska.
The whole valley area between the enemy and his own position was reasonably clear of obstruction, save for a few rises and dips, the occasional knot of trees and bushes, and the ever-present Koprzywianka River.
More shouts alerted him to the arrival of another Soviet force on the field, this time coming at them from the east.
Knocke rushed back into the headquarters to do whatever he could do stave off the disaster that appeared to be about to visit itself upon the whole Legion corps.
Fig # 243 - 1er Bataillon Chars Léger at Sulisɫawice.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”
Köster said it out loud but they were all thinking it.
He dropped easily into the turret and equipped himself with his radio microphone, all the time assessing the force that was increasing before his eyes.
Lohengrin had been idling, so was warmed up and ready to move.
The radio crackled into life as the 1er BCL’s commander issued his orders.
“All units Fuchs, all units Fuchs, Fuchs-zero calling. All units action enemy to north, repeat north. Prevent them from crossing the river. Do not advance, repeat, do not advance. Remain on the height. All units Fuchs-three to pull back and move west, repeat, move west… two hundred metres west of Nietuja. Fuchs-one acknowledge…”
Each company commander in turn repeated his orders, ending with the Third Company, whose experienced tankers were already backing up to use the main road to circle up to their new position.
It was immediately clear that an enemy force was heading due west across the edge of the heights, and it was this group that Third Company were tasked to engage.
‘Kompagnie in name only.’
Köster thought that the odds were against them because of their reduced numbers.
Soviet artillery started to fall in and around Sulisɫawice in an effort to pin down the defence.
To the east, the defending legionnaires suffered the downpour, waiting for their enemy to get closer… waiting for the order to fire.
The crews in the Felix and Jaguar [fr] tanks of 4e Compagnie 1er RCDA observed the steel monsters of the enemy heavy tank regiment grind slowly forward, knowing that they were virtually impervious to anything they could hit them with.
The 17pdr equipped Felix tanks had precious few of the new HESH rounds, which proved universally capable, but the Jaguar [fr] relied solely upon its old HEAT shell, or the newest HVAT round that had yet to prove itself against the latest heavy tanks of the Red Army.
Even though only a platoon, the six launchers of the 4e RACE, with their deadly ‘Red Riding Hood’ missiles, were the Legion’s best hope against the leviathans of the 6th Guards Tanks.
The Legion infantry were arranged in their companies on the outskirts of Sulisɫawice, save the 3e/3e/5e RdM positioned towards the rear of the village, instantly ready to man its vehicles and respond to any call.
For the moment, the infantry understood that the battle was simply one to endure, not participate in, at least until the enemy armour came in range of their AT weapons, and then it would be a different and bloody matter.
The incoming fire hit home and the IS-III rocked but continued inexorably forward, its ‘pike’ nose taking two hits and deflecting both shells away.
None the less, and despite his competence and undoubted bravery, the age-old problem affected Stelmakh and he felt the warmth spread down his inner thigh.
He didn’t even worry about it now and neither did his crew. It was simply a reaction that he couldn’t control, and they knew that he was a tried and tested warrior that they would follow to the ends of the earth if need be.
That didn’t stop the soldiers having their fun.
“Excellent work, Comrade Mayor. The risk of fire is greatly reduced.”
“Concentrate on your job, Comrade whatever-your-name-is!”
They had long since worked out that Kalinov was not who he represented himself to be, but the man was part of them now, so it simply didn’t matter.
He was an excellent loader, so it was acceptable that he would tell them in time.
In the driving position, Stepanov was assessing the ground as they advanced and keeping an eye open for the tell-tale flash of enemy fire.
He smoothly moved one way and then jerked the other, making no regular movements that might allow an enemy gunner to understand his direction.
Another enemy shell streaked past the turret and buried itself in a small hillock beyond ‘Krasny Suka’.
Stelmakh risked a look out of the cupola and saw that none of his tanks were yet stopped, something he celebrated in silence.
However, the right flank was behind and he flicked his microphone to send.
“Chorniy-pyat, Chorniy-pyat, Chorniy-odin, faster, faster, Comrade… you’re falling behind… bring it up to the line. Chorniy-odin, out.”
With some satisfaction he watched the extra puffs of black smoke mark the efforts of the five remaining vehicles in his depleted third company, a mix of IS-IVs and IS-IVm46, the latter’s superior engine making the acceleration easier than the three older IS-IVs who suffered with the inferior powertrain.
As he watched a wave of heat washed over his face as an enemy artillery shell exploded dangerously close.
He dropped into the turret, running his hands over his face and shoulders just to check that he hadn’t been hit, so close had the shell landed.
More arrived, shells of a calibre that would kill any of his tanks were they lucky enough to hit, which left him with a dilemma.
He had intended to move and identify targets before taking up cover and engaging on relatively equal terms, his big 122mm and the 130mm guns of the IS-VIIs more than capable of killing any enemy tank on the field.
But now, safety would probably lie closer to the enemy, which removed some of his advantage and could reasonably expose him to the attentions of enemy infantry with AT weapons.
Instinctively he sought relief in the topography of the battlefield, and elected to move to the left, bringing his force further south.
Fig # 245 - Sulisɫawice, Poland.
An urgent message from his headqu
arters advising that the smoke support would be lost after the new three salvoes made his decision all the more wise.
As Stelmakh ordered his regiment to change the axis of their advance, the presence of the friendly northern force became apparent, making his switch all the more reasonable and actually tactically advantageous.
Or at least so it seemed, for as his closeness might inhibit the artillery, it also brought the X-7Rotkäppchen missiles of the 4e RACE into play.
And the X-7, not that he knew what it was, was more than capable of killing any of his tanks, as he was about to find out.
Once the fire order was given, 4e RACE’s gunners released their X-7s and tracked the deadly little missiles as they swept downrange towards the advancing enemy tanks, their job made slightly easier by the size of the leviathans.
With a range of roughly a thousand metres, the flight time to target was just a fraction over four seconds, which was why a competent and highly trained rocket gunner was only produced by many weeks of teaching and, first and foremost, considered an extremely valuable asset.
Peters was the best of the best, and to observers, his four seconds of flying time always seemed to be stretched well beyond comprehension.
He even had time to understand that another X-7 was headed for his target and the wit to understand that a gentle change could bring him a fresh victim without loss of hit probability.
His missile struck home just after the one he had spotted and both target vehicles were enveloped in explosions as the hollow-charge warheads detonated.
X-7s were deadly weapons, capable of defeating armour in excess of 200mm thickness.
The missile that hit the other tank penetrated the 160mm thick hull armour and killed the tank and crew in the blink of an eye, assisted by the explosion of the propellant charge that the tank’s loader was handling at the time.