by Gee, Colin
The turret crew became aware that the tank was turning as the driver started to panic.
“Non! Arrête!”
Blanc swivelled his turret, ready to loose a shot once the damn fool driver had finished jinking the tank, whilst Revel spoke gently down his intercom, trying to calm the young driver.
The Sherman stopped dead, nearside flat on to the enemy.
Both guns fired together and both shells hit their intended target. The 75mm shot struck the glacis plate and ricocheted off into the rain clouds above, leaving a gleaming silver scar on the brand-new tank.
The 100mm shell struck the side of the Sherman immediately to the left of the driving position, entered the tank with ease, before exiting almost millimetre perfect through the same position on the offside.
Its path took it directly through both driver and machine-gunner.
The smell of tortured metal and burning competed with the sickly smells of blood and gristle, all invading their every sense.
“Get out, everyone get out!”
Revel pulled himself up through the hatch and rolled onto the rear deck, scrabbling around to lie in the lee of the turret. Blanc rolled on top of him and dropped to the ground below. Henchoz, the loader, desperate to escape, misjudged his exit and cracked his head on the unforgiving metal rim, the impact filling his eyes with blood and dropping him stunned to the floor of the vehicle.
The strike of another Soviet shell threw Revel onto the ground and silenced the cries of the petrified blinded man left in the tank.
Both survivors watched as the enemy tank moved on over the bridge to engage the three Sherman reinforcements that Revel had summoned, wincing as it killed each in turn, shaking off hits without sustaining any apparent harm. The final vehicle it destroyed burst into flames immediately, and the two Canadians witnessed a blazing survivor running blindly around the battlefield as his flesh dropped off, until a merciful burst of bullets from the enemy tank put an end to his misery.
They were broken men, reduced to pitiful creatures by the death and destruction all around them.
Safety was their prime concern, their only concern.
Revel and Blanc slithered across the sodden ground and slipped under their knocked-out tank, seeking both a respite from the driving rain as well as cover from whatever horrors the Russians would bring next.
Yarishlov saw no need to bother his infantry commander with flares as the rain was doing an excellent job in masking his approach.
A single Canadian tank was withdrawing rapidly, laden with men desperate to escape the inevitable.
Two shells from Yarishlov’s T44 turned it into a fiery beacon that burned for many hours.
Caught between the guardsmen north of the river, and the newly arrived armoured force, the fight went out of most of the Canadian infantry.
Hands were raised, and only a few stalwarts scampered away to fight another day.
Major Deniken led his men forward, detailing some to take the prisoners under guard, whilst others were sent in search of intelligence.
An extremely well camouflaged position was located, betrayed mainly by the sounds of pain coming from within. The dry and warm first aid post contained the Canadian wounded, and Deniken ordered that all Soviet wounded and medical supplies should be brought to the same spot. Within minutes, a Russian doctor and a Canadian doctor were operating side by side, fighting to save the life of a sergeant who would, despite their extraordinarily skilled efforts, never see the shores of Canada again.
Yarishlov surrendered to the latest offer of the schnapps, having just reoriented the 22nd’s units, sending them westwards to provide security whilst his tanks and the infantry sorted themselves out.
“Five kills, Comrade Polkovnik. Your report on the worth of your tank should make interesting reading.”
Kriks took the flask back and swigged another mouthful, belching in satisfied fashion, as the fiery liquid disappeared into his belly.
“That gun, Stefan. Would that we had had the beast when the German Panteras ruled our world eh?”
The Starshina could only nod.
“I thought your gunner did excellently well, Comrade Polkovnik. Perhaps immediate leave as a reward?”
“You are going nowhere, Starshina Kriks.” Yarishlov spoke with mock sternness, and his face split into a tell-tale grin, which he accompanied with a hearty back-slap, spilling some of Kriks’ precious liquid.
“You did do well though, so maybe the General will consider it when I write it up, eh?”
Yarishlov stretched, suddenly extremely weary and aware that he had not slept for many hours.
“Do we have enough fuel to do the rounds?”
“Barely enough left to manoeuvre if they counter-attack, Comrade Polkovnik.”
“In which case, I will beg a vehicle from our infantry cousins, go and check the men at the rail bridge, and then find time to sleep before the fuel trucks arrive.”
Yarishlov wandered out to locate Deniken, only to find the infantry officer with a few of his men, tinkering with a Canadian jeep that had seen better days.
As the Colonel was about to speak, the engine roared into life and a very smug looking Senior Sergeant emerged from under the bonnet to the accompaniment of cheers and much back-slapping.
The Major acknowledged the approach of his superior with a casual but respectful salute, returned in the same fashion by Yarishlov.
“Comrade Mayor! I was about to ask if you had a vehicle I could borrow to go and see to my men by the rail bridge. Seems that you have one ready for me.”
Deniken recognised the comments for what they were.
“Unless the Comrade Polkovnik intends to pull rank on me, might I suggest we go together?”
Yarishlov dropped his backside into the front passenger’s seat without another word.
The Major whispered to a tough looking Starshina who nodded and disappeared off on whatever mission Deniken had entrusted him with. Two other men were selected with the wave of a hand and climbed into the back of the jeep, their PPSH submachine guns providing security for the two officers.
Deniken graunched the gears, causing his superior officer to cast an enquiring glance at his new driver.
“Have you driven one of these before, Comrade Mayor?”
The grinding of anguished metal indicated another gear shift.
“Never, Comrade Yarishlov. We can discover its capabilities together.”
Yarishlov punched Deniken’s arm in a comradely fashion, very much approving of the infantryman’s humour and style.
“It’s your capabilities that worry me, Comrade!”
The jeep leapt forward, almost losing the two security troops over the back, bringing the sound of barely-controlled oaths questioning the parentage of their leader. The canvas roof and sides that normally kept the weather off the passengers had been removed by its previous owners, so all four were lashed by the downpour as they bore down on the rail bridge.
The jeep hit a small hole and literally flew out the other side, crashing down on its tough suspension, and firing mud in all directions as the wheels sought traction. The vehicle was sliding now, its rear almost racing with the front, heading sideways towards a stout tree stump.
Yarishlov, as befitted his rank, said nothing and contented himself with reciting a silent prayer.
Deniken crashed down a gear and the jeep surged away, resuming its progress towards the bridge.
“Do you have any driving credentials, Deniken?” his blanched face betraying his concern.
Deniken grinned from ear to ear.
“None worth speaking of, Comrade Polkovnik!”
Regaining his composure, Yarishlov struck back.
“That I can believe, Comrade Mayor. I was safer at Kursk!”
Fig #39 - Veersebruck - Key positions.
A- BA64 briefing point.
B- 6-pdr anti-tank gun.
C- Three tank reserve. Initial position.
D- Single Sherman for road bridge
defence.
E- Revel’s Sherman. Initial position.
F- Revel’s Sherman. Final position.
G- Three tank reserve. Deployment.
H- Road bridge defence tank destroyed in this position.
I- Camouflaged first aid post.
Grabin greeted the arrivals, unsure what was giving the two senior officers their lively, almost excited air, and conducted them to a simple wooden structure that provided some shelter from the rain. Here he made his report before Yarishlov moved on to check out his two tanks.
Deniken and he had already agreed that the armour would remain with Grabin’s unit until the 2nd Guards moved off again.
Returning to the jeep, the rain suddenly intensified to a previously unseen level and Yarishov ran quickly to a tree, under whose spreading branches he sought cover.
A previous tenant had installed a small waterproof sheet in the low lying branches, and its protection was welcome.
Sufficiently sheltered, he took the option of a quiet cigarette by himself. He inspected the knocked out Sherman tank from the relatively close distance, promising to have a better look once the rain had abated.
Leaning up against the main trunk and using a secondary growth to support his back, he relaxed. Drawing the rich smoke into his lungs, he silently reflected on the past hour, past day, past week, past...
He fell asleep.
Revel was in his mother’s close embrace, but all was not well. Hugging him tightly to her body, she was scrambling through a sodden rabbit warren, ever decreasing in diameter, jamming her son’s body between her and the wall of the burrow.
The water ran in strong streams, washing up over his face, causing him to cough, as it prevented him from breathing, or shouting, or crying.
His mother gripped him more tightly, battling further into the warren, ignoring its decreasing dimensions, plunging on to the safety it offered her and her son.
She pushed on, seemingly unaware that she was pressing the breath from her son’s body.
The glistening brown walls of the warren seemed to press in of their own accord, further restricting Revel’s capacity to draw breath.
‘Maman! Maman! Je ne peux pas respire, Maman!’
He woke up.
Yarishlov became aware of a high-pitched scream; a strangely strangled and watery scream.
Without a doubt, it was the scream of someone experiencing the extremes of terror.
He was immediately wide-eyed and grabbing at his pistol holster.
The rain was still falling heavily but seemed to be striking the soil softly; either that or the sounds of panic took precedence in his mind. He dropped to one knee and surveyed the scene around him.
Nothing.
‘Check again, you fool’.
He looked around once more, trying hard to locate the source or even direction of the strangled screaming.
‘The tank?’
Standing, he swiftly checked that the sounds of running feet behind him were friendly, before taking off towards the tank, confirming with every step he took that the source was indeed the enemy tank.
Revel and Blanc had taken refuge underneath the wreck and both, totally exhausted, had fallen asleep, not knowing that their failure to stay awake would condemn both of them to a horrible death.
The rain had turned the ground into a quagmire, on top of which sat over thirty tons of metal, gently and inexorably sinking.
Revel had awoken as the floor of the Sherman pressed him gently into the muddy ground, enough to wake him, and enough to hold him in place as the tank dropped lower still.
In full and horrified understanding of what was happening, Yarishlov shouted for help as he ripped the spade off the Sherman’s hull, immediately starting to dig at the front of the vehicle.
As other Soviet troopers started to arrive, they too dug, with helmets and hands, entrenching tools and rifle butts, reinforcing the effort at the front and starting another dig at the back.
Deniken sent a young runner away to bring back more men and tools, and then plunged back again to his frantic digging.
“Can you drag the bastard off, Yarishlov?”
The efforts of digging started to tell, each phrase punctuated by a deep breath and another use of the spade.
“Not a hope, Deniken. No time, ground’s got no fucking grip, fucking useless. He has to come out now.”
“The jeep? Drag the poor man out?”
“Give it a try, but we have no time.”
The infantry officer looked up and found Kriks, who nodded and ran like the wind.
Blanc was slipping into unconsciousness, the side of the tank under which he lay having dropped lower than Revel’s. His terrified whimpering ceased and the gunner drowned silently as his head was pushed face first into a puddle of muddy water.
Revel’s panic grew as his inability to take a proper meaningful breath increased, the flat bottom plate of the American-made tank pressing him tightly to the ground, restricting all but the tiniest movement.
The increased sounds of rescue reached him, and he tried harder to scream his presence, now unable to muster anything but a breathless squeal.
Deniken and Yarishlov worked side by side, desperately trying to manufacture a small trench into which they could try and drag the unfortunate man, or to at least move earth from under him and buy more time.
A hand suddenly appeared, moving as frantically as the restriction allowed, seemingly detached from any body. A second hand emerged and waved, both now scrabbling at the mud and water.
The two officers exchanged looks and nodded swift agreement.
Deniken leant in and took hold of the man’s left hand; Yarishlov took the right.
Both men took a firm grip and pulled, the disembodied hands pulling against them to double the effort.
One of Deniken’s guardsmen dived in between them to continue the digging work, others took hold of their officers and pulled.
Again and again, they exerted their collective strength, and were rewarded with a gain of no more than two inches.
Both Yarishov and Deniken ignored the pains inflicted by their own men.
The jeep backed up to the wrecked tank, and men started to attach lines, preparing an effort to drag the man clear using the power of the little 4x4.
Kriks slid into the hollow, holding the ends of two lines, waiting for the word from behind him. He ordered the spare men out, leaving just the four of them to battle for the life of the unknown enemy soldier.
His lines would remain unused, as the battle was already lost.
It was hopeless, but neither officer conceded or halted their effort until the hands they held grew soft.
Feeling a gentle squeeze, Yarishlov replied in kind, providing a presence to the unknown man dying a horrible death a few unconquerable feet from where he lay.
Deniken shared the last moment’s too, the man acknowledging his grip with his own until he died, suffocated and crushed under his own tank.
Both officers were reluctant to release their hold, even when all work ceased and the other would-be rescuers stood back.
Yarishlov and Deniken sought eye-contact, and the two exchanged unspoken words. With a mutual nod, they released the lifeless hands, sliding backwards out of the digging area.
Deniken knelt down and picked up his SVT, slinging it over his shoulder, before accepting one of the numerous cigarettes being held out to him by his respectful soldiers.
A number of canteens were passing round the muddy group, none of them containing thirst-quenching water.
Yarishlov took a full swig of brandy and spoke quietly, loud enough for all to hear, but soft enough to carry his soldierly feelings and his humanity.
“Well done, Comrades. No way for a soldier to die but we, his enemies, tried to save him. I’m proud of you all.”
A few words of thanks fell almost unheard as the group broke up and returned to their business.
Deniken threw his cigarette butt into a puddle and set his p
eaked cap properly on his head. It was the sole piece of his personal gear that was not thickly caked in dark brown mud. Saluting his equally muddy superior officer, he said his piece.
“Comrade Polkovnik, it has been a privilege to serve with you. Good luck, Sir.”
Yarishlov’s salute quickly turned into an extended hand and Deniken reciprocated. Two hands that had held a dying man were shaken in mutual admiration of the qualities of the other.
Betrayal is common for men with no conscience
Toba Beta.
Chapter 63 – THE MESSAGES
Wednesday, 15th August 1945, 0723 hrs [Moscow Time], the Kremlin, Moscow, USSR.
Beria had received the message on his arrival at his office, and was immediately driven to the Kremlin to inform the General Secretary.
He sipped his tea, watching Stalin like a hungry hawk watches a wolf; respectfully, and without challenge to the latter’s predatory skills.
Holding both the message and the proposed replies, the Soviet Generallisimo seemed strangely reluctant to make a decision.
‘Assassination or maskirova?’
Stalin focussed on the NKVD chief, sensing there was something else to the matter, not knowing what it was.
‘What advantages lie here, truly? Why do we not kill him and have done with it?’
That was simple, but something ingrained in the psyche of the Soviet people always relished the opportunity for sleight of hand or, as in this case, the misdirection of a nation.
“And your recommendation is?”
Beria chose to promote his own agenda once more, whilst skilfully withholding his commitment for the benefit of the microphones.
“We can do nothing, Comrade General Secretary and all will be as we first wished it to be or,” he indicated the report and reply, “We can send that and possibly achieve better results.”
Stalin nodded gently, removing the pipe from his mouth with his free hand.
“Is ‘possibly’ enough Lavrentiy? We could have done with him once and for all if we let it run. Does the alternative offer us real advantages if it goes as we hope?”