by Colin Gee
Parker swung his first platoon more to the left flank, with orders to support the infantry as soon as possible, the recon elements assigned to his company pushing hard, trying to get information for him as to what the hell was happening to the soldiers of the 259th.
All hell broke loose in short order, and Parker became quickly aware of a swarm of enemy tanks on his left flank.
The Super Pershings of his 1st Platoon were engaging, and their 90mm guns immediately made themselves felt against the inferior enemy armour.
Halting to fire, the first shell from each tank drew blood from a target in the valley and immediately the officers and men of the 259th felt the pressure ease, as the T34s went quickly through the gears to high speed, jinking to avoid the deadly guns that could kill them with impunity.
But the Soviet commander did not lack courage, and his orders brought his tanks closer and closer to the Super Pershings of 1st Platoon.
He also committed his ace in the hole, his own upgunned tanks, the hasty marriage of the ubiquitous T34 and the 100mm.
The design was not without faults, but the gun was deadly against all but the most superior armoured of targets.
Unfortunately for the Russian tankers, the Super Pershing was just that.
The single version to see action in the previous war had benefitted from extra armour plate welded on in the field, be it boilerplate or recovered pieces of German tanks.
The production versions were born with all the armour they could ever need, but paid the price for their virtual invulnerability with slower speeds and manoeuvrability.
The armour on the hull and turret front approached 200mm thickness and it, and other additions on the hull and turret sides, were spaced, to reduce the effectiveness of hollow-charge weapons, particularly the Panzerfaust or Soviet equivalent, a weapon that still brought sleepless nights to most Allied tankers.
One of the Soviet copies of the lethal weapon dispatched the lead M5 recon tank as it picked its way forward, the tank commander in mid-report with his own commanding officer, a radio message that stopped abruptly and would never be resumed.
The light tank smoked briefly and then the fire came, hounding three of the crew from their refuge behind the knocked-out vehicles. It took less than a minute for the tank to become a cauldron and then explode as its ammunition gave up the struggle against the heat.
Soviet infantry helped the running tankers on their way with bursts of DP fire.
The T34m45/100 tanks were at the rear of the enemy push, taking time to engage, making sure of their shots.
A solid lump of metal struck the front of Parker’s tank, and deflected away, missing his head by no more than three feet.
He felt the gut-wrenching assault of fear and strove to control his stomach, determined to keep his meal down, fighting against the attempts of his system to throw up.
Another shell came close, throwing earth and debris up other the tank.
He vomited, sending his egg and bacon breakfast down the side of the turret and onto the top armour, following it up quickly with the rest of the meal plus coffee.
Wiping the remnants from his mouth, he keyed the mike.
“Driver, move left. Wall and tree. Put us in behind the wall a-sap. Gunner, target, left twelve, range twelve hundred.”
Dewey moved the long-barrelled 90mm into the right line, adjusting as the tank moved into its firing position.
The movement stopped and he waited for the rocking of the suspension to stop.
“Target tank, on.”
“FIRE!”
The breech flew back into the turret as the powerful gun sent its deadly missile down range.
Dewey never celebrated his kills for reasons best known to him, but Parker’s whoop let the tank crew know that their shell had gone home to good effect.
In fact, Dewey was something of a mystery to the rest of the crew, bar Parker, who had the advantage of having read the man’s file.
He suspected he knew the reasons behind the gunner’s aloofness, but had never tackled him on the subject of what had actually happened at Arracourt in September ’44, and the story behind the Silver Star and Purple Heart Dewey had been awarded.
He never wore the ribbons and evaded any questions when asked about his family, life, or history, save to confirm he had seen combat with the 4th Armored before arriving with the 15th.
All Nathaniel Parker really needed to know about the man was his gunnery skills, and Dewey was as proficient as they came.
“Target, tank, right two, range thirteen hundred.”
“On.”
“FIRE!”
Another armor-piercing, composite rigid tank-killing shell went from muzzle to target in the blink of an eye.
The old Model44 T34 disintegrated under the hammer blow.
“Driver, move right and forward, hedge line.”
The Super Pershing clipped the stonewall as it moved, destroying the corner in an instant.
Parker instinctively dropped himself into the turret as a flurry of mortar shells arrived, adding to the destruction of the old wall and its surroundings.
He smiled to himself and raised his head enough to sweep the enemy positions with his binoculars.
There was…
He concentrated.
‘Well I’ll be…’
Parker saw something important.
Allowing the tank to find its cover, he whispered into the mike.
“Command tank, right three, range fourteen hundred, Chinese fucking laundry…see him?”
The gun swung gently.
“Nope… ah… yep… fucking sneaky bastard!”
The tell-tale aerials of a command tank were tied down and the T34 was camouflaged by the simple but effective use of washing draped around it.
Dewey made a small adjustment.
“On.”
“Fire.”
The Soviet tank company lost its commanding officer.
Fig # 198 – Soviet Order of Battle, Height 493, Fulda.
230th ‘Zhitomir’ Independent Tank Regiment had lost more than a company commander to the lethal 90mm’s of the Super Pershings, its first company T34s mostly burning and smoking in the valley where they had first sprung a surprise on the Battle-axe infantrymen.
The Zhitomir Regiment was not at full strength, but had received reinforcements from units broken up by casualties, and touted an impressive order of battle for a Soviet armoured unit at this stage in the war.
Major Yatzhin, a veteran of Kursk, Bagration, and the final days in Czechoslovakia, commanded a mixed force of T34s, as well as an infantry company and the remnants of a heavy tank unit, whose IS-IIIs now lay in wait for the US advance.
The Cossack General commanding had sent more cavalrymen from the 6th Guards Cavalry Corps to help with the defence of Heights 434 and 493.
The tank Major ensured his own defences on 493 were fully prepared, and ordered the newly arrived horseless cavalrymen to thicken up his defence, and retained his own SMG unit as a reaction force to seal any breach.
Yatzhin’s command tank was dug-in on the slope of Height 493, from where he observed the slow but sure advance of the American heavy tanks.
Puzzled that the artillery had slackened off, Yatzhin contacted the Artillery liaison officer, only to discover that the artillery battalion had been attacked by aircraft and was repositioning…
… what was left of it…
He still had a company of Katyusha up his sleeve, but their value against heavy tanks was limited.
The American juggernaut crept closer.
“Gunner, follow the lead one on the road there. Stay on target.”
He flicked the radio switch to his unit’s frequency and thumbed the mike.
“Kukhnya-Zero, all units Podval, Uchitel-Zero, Kukhnya-Two and Kukhnya-Three, hold your fire… hold your fire…”
He released the mike button and spared a milli-second’s thought for the commander and men of Kukhnya-One, whose men and machines lay blaste
d in the valley to his right.
The moment passed and he returned to his mental picture of the battlefield, imagining his tanks, and those of the broken heavy tank regiment, the handful of anti-tank guns, and the infantry… and the mines.
“…Hold your fire…”
The mines had been provided from stocks liberated from the former Nazi army, Type 43 Riegel bar mines in large numbers, notorious for their sensitivity and instability due to corrosion in the wiring, a fact attested to by the engineer unit that had laid them, which had lost three valuable men in the process.
The mines were another reason that his artillery had avoided the valley floor, not wishing to set off the sensitive devices before they had a chance to play their part.
“…Hold your fire…”
The large enemy tanks were still progressing, seeking new targets to their front, occasionally halting to fire and pick off a survivor from his First Company.
“… Hold your fire…”
A shell sent from the side of Height 434 achieved success, struck the side of a Super Pershing’s turret and deflected perfectly into the hull armour.
The turret leapt skywards, driven up by the huge force of the explosion, killing the entire crew instantly.
Vengeance was swift, despite the best efforts of the T34 to move back to cover.
Three 90mm shells transformed it to scrap metal within seconds.
“…Hold your fire…”
The destruction of the T34 was a signal to the GIs of the 259th, and they rose up as their officers and NCOs screamed at them, pushing hard to get out of the valley and up the slopes to their target.
This surge encouraged Parker to push his men harder, and he urged his two platoons to move forward quicker.
“…Hold…”
Yatzhin held his breath, sensing the moment approaching.
Above the sounds of battle, the crack of exploding Riegel mines reached his ears. Shifting his binoculars, he quickly spotted an enemy tank, its tracks both shed, disabled, and bereft of cover.
To its left, another tank, one track gone, desperately tried to make some move to the nearest cover.
“Fire!”
More Riegels exploded before the first volley arrived, disabling a total of six of the heavy tanks.
Two of the disabled Super Pershings became kills as 100mm and 122mm shells arrived on target, although it was the 100mm missiles that did the damage, the 122mm HEAT shells being defeated by the spaced armour they struck.
More HEAT followed before the IS-III commanders realised their error and reverted to solid shot.
Even when disabled, the Super Pershings were a tough nut to crack, and soon Yatzhin’s casualties started to mount.
He reverted to tactics of old, used successfully against the waves of panzers at Kursk.
“Kukhnya-Zero, Kukhnya-Two, Kukhnya-three, advance immediately, close down the range, out.”
He took the acknowledgements before contacting the IS-III unit.
“Kukhnya-Zero, Uchitel-Zero, hold position, out.”
The IS-IIIs were mainly positioned on the eastern side of Height 434, oriented to the south and south-west, still perfectly placed for over watch of the US advance.
Yatzhin watched with pride as his two companies responded immediately, using the speed of their T34s to close down the distance, bringing the enemy closer, intent on reducing the effectiveness of their thick armour, and hoping to take advantage of the enemies’ slow speed and low manoeuvrability.
Just as he had been taught, and just as had proved successful at Kursk.
A roar overhead broke his moment of self-satisfaction.
“Blyad!”
Some new enemy aircraft swept overhead and dropped cluster munitions on the top and reverse slopes of the height opposite, and he knew he his force had just been badly hurt.
His AA defences were inadequate, and the second wave of aircraft attacked, easily putting their munitions right on target.
The third wave of aircraft, recognisable as P-47 Thunderbolts, swept lazily overhead, and bathed the Soviet defensive position with the now traditional application of deadly napalm.
He keyed the mike, sending an order to the Guards mortar unit, who in turn released their Katyusha rockets, turning the valley in front of Height 424 into a bloodbath, and hammering the second echelon of the US infantry attack.
True to their doctrine, the Guards Mortars started the process of rapid relocation before the last rocket left the rails.
Another order brought whatever artillery and mortar fire available to bear upon the stranded tanks of the US tank company to his front, where he determined to give his advancing T34s the best possible chance at success.
The screams pierced Parker’s concentration and he instinctively turned his head, just catching the red mist aftermath left by a mortar shell that destroyed two men working on the track of a nearby Super Pershing.
He had made a command decision.
Threatened by the advance of numerous enemy tanks, he should have withdrawn, but too many of his tanks had been disabled by mines, and to withdraw meant leaving them to be overrun and knocked out.
So, Nathaniel Parker elected to stay and fight, moving his remaining running tanks to the left flank.
His reasoning was sound.
He moved to cover the flank of the infantry, ensuring that the advancing enemy tanks had to deal with his unit first. Parker also gave at least part of his unit better angles on the approaching enemy vehicles.
He also hoped to move around the minefield, opening up his manoeuvre possibilities.
With the courage of desperate men, the disabled Pershings started to claim victims amongst the jinking T34s.
“Move up, nice and slow, stay tight.”
The group of seven tanks obeyed, moving ahead of their stranded comrades, changing the angles as Parker knew the move would.
The lead T34 responded, changing direction and hurtling towards his group, exposing a larger target to attack from the side.
The disabled Super Pershings needed no second invitation.
A shell went straight through the target, apparently without causing any real damage.
A second shell brought the now smoking tank to an immediate halt, and the crew abandoned under fire from coaxial machine guns.
A flash overhead heralded the arrival of more air support, and the smoking tank disintegrated as two rockets hit it flat on, sending metal in all directions.
The IS-IIIs commander, call sign Uchitel-zero, called his vehicles to cease fire, thus avoiding attracting swift retribution from the air.
The handful of static and mobile flak weapons available to the Russian force did what they could, and that was next to nothing, the nearest thing to victory a minor damage hit on one of the latest attackers, a Thunderbolt, which lost part of a wingtip as it wheeled away from delivering its rockets.
A clang announced a direct hit on the hull of Parker’s tank, but the solid shot soared skywards as the heavy plate resisted its attention.
Soon, the smell of faeces and urine reached the turret crew.
‘Father’ had lost control of both bowels and bladder with the fright of the impact.
No one said anything.
They had all been there before themselves.
Parker’s manoeuvre had worked, after a fashion, as the advancing tanks concentrated more on the running vehicles than those disabled in the minefield, which meant that the stationery vehicles enjoyed easier shots on their enemy.
The aircraft circled the battlefield, seeking employment, but conscious of the close proximity of the two armoured units.
Impatient, as only airmen can be, the USAAF pilots welcomed the unexpected arrival of some Mikoyans, and pursued the terrified Soviet pilots as far as they could.
It was an error.
Yatzhin seized the moment.
“Kukhnya-Zero, Uchitel-Zero, open fire on the mobile group immediately. Kill them all! Out.”
The silent IS
-IIIs had been tracking their targets, waiting for the moment of release.
With the advantage of height, they fired, and their AP shells angled down on the Pershings, negating much of the slant of their armour.
“Fuck! Incom…”
Parker recoiled from the hatch and tensed as the white blob ate up the distance from tank to tank in the briefest of moments and arrived before he completed his warning.
Kerangg!
A wave of heat and sound assaulted every member of the crew.
Kerangg!
A second shot struck home.
Screaming…
“Shut the fuck up, father!”
It wasn’t father.
It was Middlemass, the driver, who had broken both ankles as the heavy shell had struck the front hull and the shock wave had travelled through all things metal until finding his vulnerable bones tensed against the pedals.
Kerangg!
The screams stopped and the metallic tang of blood and bone filled the inside of the tank.
The solid shot had punched through the plate and ploughed through the screaming driver on its way into the floor pan.
It did not explode.
Parker knew he was hurt, the blood flow down his head quickly impairing his vision, but not enough for him to fail to notice he no longer had a cupola.
The whole thing had been stripped away by the first hit and he had daylight above him.
“Everyone ok? Talk to me!”
Acknowledgements of different types came back from all but Middlemass, with only Dewey sounding in control of himself.
“I’m on, Major.”
“Take ‘em out. I can’t see a fucking thing.”
The 90mm sent its reply towards its tormentors, but the IS-III it struck proved resilient.
Kerangg!
Another shell struck the front upper edge of the turret and disappeared off into the remains of the German village, doing further mischief amongst armored infantrymen waiting to advance,
“Gun’s fucked! Major, the gun’s fucked! No elevation.”
The barrel had dropped dramatically, pointing to the ground and it refused to respond to any adjustments.