by Colin Gee
He scrambled for the wire end and stuck it between his teeth, biting down hard as he pulled on it, instantly stripping the insulation off a two-inch section.
Nazarbayev repeated the exercise with the other end, joined the two together in rough fashion, and readied the detonator.
The smile that he saw on Nauvintsev’s face was one of pride and of sorrow, an expression that he acknowledged with a nod, before he twisted the detonator and sent a small current down the repaired line.
The demolition charge ignited, destroying the bridge, killing or wounding the three Coldstream Guardsmen closest to the bridge, and terminating Nauvintsev’s existence.
On the British radio net, all hell broke loose, with Scipio-six, the 2nd Grenadier’s commander, hunting down information like a hungry hound.
Blenheim-six, A Squadron’s commander, was on the airwaves, desperate to get the fuel with which he could move forward and bolster the assault.
Maj Godfrey Eben Pike DSO MBE, OC B Squadron, confirmed the loss of the bridge, called for more support, bridging engineers, more infantry, more everything.
‘Bunty’ Hargreaves took notes but could offer nothing tangible as yet, leaving Lieutenant Colonel Keith with only words of encouragement.
“Corunna-six, Scipio-six, you’ve done well so far. Sit tight and cover the airfield area to the south and river ahead. Blenheim will be moving up directly. Alma’s forty minutes out. Over.”
“Scipio-six, Corunna-six, understood, but I’m low on sherry. Any news on that delivery, over.”
“Corunna-six, Scipio-six, not as yet. Just sit tight, Corunna. Out.”
Pike tossed the headset into the bottom of the armoured car in disgust.
“Bugger, bum, balls! How in the name of blazes can I fight a bloody war without petrol for my tanks, eh?”
Lance Corporal Devenish wisely kept his mouth shut and concentrated on the gauges in front of him, noticing the distinct lack of ‘sherry’ in the dingo’s tank.
“Right, Devenish, get me over to the left flank there, and quick about it.”
Pike determined to take a personal look at the destroyed bridge, in order to assess if there was any mileage in getting a bridge layer up.
Within a few minutes the idea was but a distant memory, and ‘B’ Squadron were in the fight of their lives.
Colonel Hargreaves hastily conferred with Keith, and the two parted, one to fight the battle as best he could, the other to bring up as much as he could by way of reinforcements.
Keith spared a moment to watch Hargreaves’ Morris quad bounce away, but quickly returned his focus to the battle in front of him.
1410 hrs, Sunday, 28th July 1946, Parchim, Germany.
“Excellent, Viktor Timofeevich. When?”
“Almost immediately, Comrade Polkovnik General… moment…”
Removing the telephone from his ear, Viktor Obukov, commander of 3rd Guards Mechanised Corps, accepted a written report from his deputy, Major General Golov.
“Blyad. Casualties?”
“Not many guns, but they have to move. It will take time, probably nearly an hour, Comrade.”
He nodded by way of reply and spoke rapidly into the telephone.
“Comrade Polkovnik General, my artillery has been attacked and disrupted, but I’m going with the plan anyway. The Capitalists have stopped for a reason, and I’m going to exploit it. We attack at 1415.”
“Objective?”
The words slipped easily from Obukov’s mouth, but both men knew the doing would be harder than the saying by some considerable distance.
“Spornitz by direct assault… then I shall feint towards Ludwigslust, but centre my main efforts on moving northwards through Matzlow, and fall upon Schwerin. The opportunity to encircle the enemy forces north of my Ninth Brigade is too much to ignore, Comrade Polkovnik General.”
The silence on the phone was penetrating as Kazakov, commander of 10th Guards Army, assessed the possibilities.
In his headquarters, he ran his fingers over the situation map, reading the ground, the forces… the possibilities.
“I agree, Comrade Obukov. Comrade Marshal Bagramyan will be informed, and I’ll submit an urgent request for all the air cover we can muster. We’ve an opportunity here, Comrade. I’ll send some more support to your units south of the Elde. I suggest that you keep 9th Guards Brigade in place as a hinge. I’ll prepare our forces to their north for action in support of you, once you head for Schwerin. Have your staff get the written operational plan to me immediately.”
“Yes, Comrade Polkovnik General. Now, we’ll give the bastards something to think about.”
“Damned right. Now, set to it, Comrade. I’m going to speak to frontal headquarters immediately.”
The connection was terminated and both men, separated by fourteen kilometres of telephone cable, set about their tasks with renewed enthusiasm.
Fig # 209 - Soviet Order of Battle - Parchim, Germany.
1420 hrs, Sunday, 28th July 1946, Parchim, Germany.
With the speed and accuracy of veterans, the gunners of the 1510th Self-Propelled Artillery Regiment reacted to their hasty orders and put down a barrage on the advance British elements; their 152mm shells caused havoc with tankers and infantrymen alike.
An HE shell from one of the monster ISU-152s found no resistance worth the name when it smashed onto the turret of a Centurion II, the kinetic force alone sufficient to drive the top armour down into the turret space, where it easily won the battle between flesh and steel.
Even though the shell failed to explode, the 2IC of ‘B’ Squadron and his crew were messily removed from the equation in the blink of an eye.
At the rear of the advance group, another Centurion was tossed onto its side by two near misses, leaving none of its crew capable of evacuating the tank, as their bones shattered and disintegrated when bodies smashed into immovable metal.
Major Pike, his head bleeding from a close shave, screamed into his radio in vain, not knowing that it was the source of the burning smell that was just about recognisable over the metallic smell of blood from his scalp wound.
Despite mounting casualties, the Coldstreams and Grenadiers steadied themselves and waited for the inevitable.
Fig # 210 - Soviet counter-attack, Parchim, Germany.
2nd Grenadiers had driven straight into the divide between the 7th and 9th Guards Mechanised Brigades.
The latter was set on the defensive, still understrength from its exertions during the initial stages of the Allied offensive.
The 7th was a different proposition, nearer full strength, and Obukov had, with some other units of the 3rd Guards Mechanised, nurtured and kept them safe for the right moment.
As far as Colonel General Kazakov was concerned, that moment had come, and Obukov set loose his best remaining troops in a counter-attack intended to destroy the British resistance to their front, and retake Schwerin.
Leaving the 1st Battalion in Parchim and its environs, the remainder of the 7th’s motorised infantry components struck out, 2nd battalion straight out of Parchim and across the airfield, 3rd Battalion moved through the woods to the south, intent on occupying Spornitz in the first instance.
2nd Battalion was supported by elements of the 43rd Guards Tank Regiment, equipped with a mix of 85mm and 100mm equipped T34s.
The 43rd’s commander intended them to rely on speed rather than ability in a stand up fight, and his unit acted accordingly.
The 3rd Mechanised Battalion moved alongside part of the 35th Guards Tank Brigade, whose 1st Tank Battalion, although greatly reduced, possessed some quality T-54s alongside the venerable T34m44s it had started hostilities with.
The remaining part of the 35th Guards Tanks was conserved, held behind the 1st Tank Battalion, ready to drive in between the lead British units and the second echelon and develop the route to Schwerin.
Although equipped solely with T34s, both m44 and m45 models, Lieutenant Colonel Sarkashian, the 35th Brigade’s commander, had pre
served his most experienced men for the difficult exploitation phase of the attack, and he was confident they would open the road to his final target.
Elsewhere across the battlefield, a leavening of SP anti-tank guns were held back, ready to provide support should a particularly difficult situation arise, and SPAA assets moved carefully forward, ready to provide close support when the inevitable fighter-bombers arrived.
Along with the artillery and mortar support arraigned against it, 2nd Grenadiers and 5th Coldstreams suddenly found themselves in the fight of their lives.
17-pdr shells crossed the battlefield, 85mm and 100mm shells passed them on the other track, all set against a back drop of artillery and mortar strikes, called in by harassed officers on both sides.
In the main, the 85mm shells proved ineffective against the Centurions.
A number of tanks were hit but, apart from soiled underwear, little damage was done.
The 100mm shells were a different matter.
One Guards troop commander was still screaming his joy at registering a fourth kill in as many minutes when a 100mm solid shot smashed through the hull of his tank, creating a whirlwind of bone and gristle, and leaving him suddenly alone.
Unable to recognise anything human about the things around him, the young subaltern screamed in horror and pushed himself up out of the cupola, desperate to escape the horrors of the tank’s interior.
He quickly added to them, when his headless corpse flopped onto the turret deck, his head removed by a passing shell.
As the Soviet attack flowed along the south bank of the Elde River, the Coldstream infantry started to give ground, firing as they went, leapfrogging backwards from positon to position.
Encouraged by Nazarbayev, the soldiers of the 9th took them under fire and pinning a number in place as best they could, which permitted their attacking comrades to get closer and closer.
Perhaps understandably, some excitable soul in the lead Soviet assault unit mistakenly took Nazarbayev’s men under fire, which forced them to take cover more effectively than any attempts by the British Guardsmen to their front.
The lead elements of the 2nd Battalion started to dismount and move into foot assault on the small knots of resistance they encountered.
Although Sarkashian’s guardsmen had suffered many deprivations during the long winter and the supply shortages, they were decidedly fitter than most frontline Soviet soldiers, and their assaults swiftly overwhelmed the Coldstreams, whose choices were clear; surrender or die, and the British Guards were not minded to surrender.
‘B’ Squadron’s tanks stood and died, or reversed, often with the same result, as, not for the first time, numerical superiority started to overcome technology.
Godfrey Pike, his radio now repaired, did all he could to try to reorganise his battered force, all the time ensuring that Lieutenant Colonel Keith understood the perilous position his command was in.
‘A’ Squadron was also engaged, but was hampered by its inability to manoeuvre. Using speed alone, Soviet tank units closed down the range between vehicles, and both British tank squadrons found themselves fighting at ever reducing range, as 43rd Guards Tank Regiment charged forward, in spite of its own grievous losses.
British artillery opened up and managed to reduce the odds even further, but the Soviet’s understood that getting in close was of benefit in more than one way, and the British artillery would inevitably cease to prevent friendly casualties.
A number of passes were made by Allied ground attack aircraft, but only two attacked, the rest unable to make sure who was who, and fairly chose not to add their ordnance to the maelstrom below.
To the south, a large force of Soviets slipped past the British positions, moving through the largely intact Sonnenberg Wald, and closing on Spornitz virtually unopposed.
The southern force commander, Sarkashian himself, ordered the advance out of the Sonnenberg Wald, and his tanks crossed the almost dry Splettbach. Part he sent barrelling straight at Spornitz, to run parallel with the Oberbach and Mühlenbach. Part he sent further westward, with orders to circumvent Spornitz, pass to the east of Dutschow, and occupy the junction of Routes 65 and 59.
1456 hrs, Sunday, 28th July, 1946, Route 59, Dütschow, Germany.
“But my orders say Spornitz, Sarnt-Major.”
“Your orders are out of bloody date, Sir. Listen to that…”
Charles pointed in the direction of whatever hell was being stirred up to their west.
“I take your point, Sarnt-Major, really I do, but… I say…”
With exasperation rather than respect, CSM Charles interrupted the transport officer’s words with a raised hand.
“Sir. Will you help us dismount?”
“Not here, Sarnt-Maj…
Charles spun his finger in a simple sign, and the Centurion’s engine burst into life.
The transport officer went nearly blue with the indignity of it all.
“No! That won’t do… won’t do at all! Stop that!”
Charles, his back towards the elderly man, waved his hand once more and Lady Godiva III dropped into gear and drove backwards off the trailer.
“My God, man! I’ll have you arrested! I mean to say… what the blazes?”
One of the Diamond Whites came apart in a violent explosion.
The tank crews present recognised the crack that had preceded the arrival of a high-explosive shell.
‘Enemy tanks!’
Other transporters were slowly coming to a halt behind the lead vehicles that had, until a few moments ago, held Charles’ own tank.
The tanks of ‘C’ Squadron has been caught on their transports, and were at great disadvantage.
“Captain! That’s why your orders are out of sodding date! We need the tanks off the bloody trailers… NOW!”
He shouted at the engineer officer.
“Lieutenant Ansell! Can you keep the bastards off us long enough to get the tanks off? As best you can!”
“Will do. Good luck!”
Ansell shouted at his men, pointing towards the ruins of Dutschow.
The men, engineers from 14th Field Squadron RE who had travelled up in company with ‘C’ Squadron, needed no second invitation and charged towards the hard cover offered by the rubblised remains of Dutschow.
Leaving the shocked transport captain to work things out, CSM Charles climbed aboard his tank, intent on buying some time for the rest of his squadron to unload.
“Up that rise to the left… in behind that old building… fucking sharpish, man!”
The Centurion’s Meteor engine purred as the tracks gripped the grass and pulled the fifty-two ton tank up the small incline.
The destroyed building proved to be a superb firing point, one from which the Soviet attacking force was revealed in all its glory.
Fig # 211 - The arrival of ‘C’ Squadron, Battle of Parchim, Germany.
“Fucking hell! The whole of fucking Uncle Joe’s three-ring circus is out there!”
Patterson was confronted with the original ‘target-rich’ environment.
Charles was momentarily stunned into silence, a silence broken by Wild’s laconic observation.
“Are you lot planning to use that fucking gun or what?”
The side of a T-54 proved an irresistible target.
“Target tank, right two, moving right to left, range, thirteen hundred…”
The tank commander’s instructions fell away as Charles knew his sabot round was no good at that distance.
Although he knew the answer, he had to check.
“What you got up the spout, Pats?”
“APC.”
“Good enough. You got ‘im?”
“Nope. He’s stopped behind cover, Sarnt-Major.”
“Roger… target tank… right two… range twelve-fifty.”
“On… he’s a command tank…”
“FIRE!”
The 20-pdr swept back in its mount and the APCBC shell sped down range.
“Fuck it!”
“Again!”
Charles moved his cupola to examine the rest of the battlefield, and saw the deploying tanks and infantry splitting, some on the original axis, others moving towards the debussing members of his squadron.
“Kill him quick, Pats.”
Again, the big gun spat a solid shot at the enemy force.
“Got the bastard!”
One of the T34m45s ground to a halt, its engine smoking as flames licked around the compartment.
Charles called the new target.
“Traverse right, Pats. There’s a gaggle coming out of the woods. Line of tanks… new type… see them?”
“Yep. I’m on.”
Charles examined the enemy vehicles.
“They’re the new 54 type I think.”
Patterson gave a murmur of agreement.
“Beefy, change to HESH next.”
“Sarnt-major.”
“Still on, Pats?”
“Yep.”
“FIRE!”
The gun rocked back.
“Hit! Don’t think we killed the bastard though.”
“Again.”
Silverside had slid one of the new shells into the breech.
Patterson made his adjustments.
“Same target, on.”
“FIRE!”
The APCBC shell hadn’t killed the T-54, but it had damaged it by jamming the turret in the forward position.
Quickly working the problem through his mind, the commander decided to alter course towards a small rise where he could take cover and evaluate the damage.
The HESH shell arrived and made his efforts immaterial.
It struck on the turret, roughly two foot to one side of the main gun.
The thin shell casing collapsed and the explosive filler spread like a lump of dough, all in a fraction of a second. A base fuse did the initiation of the explosives and the shock wave was dispatched through the armour plate.