Opening Moves

Dropping down next to his Major, the bald NCO took down at least one man with a controlled four rounds from his Garand.

“The boys are moving Sir. We can buy them some time.”

The Master Sergeant looked quickly around and saw what he needed, pulling his Major into the relative safety of a shallow depression exactly halfway between the two roads.

Both men fired constantly, more intent on keeping the riverbank enemy focussed on them, not on the backs of their running men.

Collins tried a long throw with a fragmentation grenade but came up short, getting nicked on the upper arm for his trouble.

“Goddamn it,” he growled as he dropped back into cover and tested the wounded limb.

He risked a quick look at the men’s dash for the village and was appalled to see how few were left. Even as he watched, two more went down hard.

A low groan and a weight fell heavily against him, snapping his right leg at mid-calf in one hideously painful instant.

Brennan had taken a round through the shoulder and it had knocked him off his feet.

Collins, tears of pain in his eyes, helped the Major back up and watched as the officer tried to fire his Garand one handed.

The Master Sergeant picked up his own weapon, discharged the last two rounds skywards, and inserted another full charger.

“Drop me your ammo and rifle. I will reload Buck.”

Also in great pain, Brennan laughed the laugh of the half-mad.

“Did you just call me Buck you bald bastard?”

“Guess I did at that Major. Bust me when we get out of this ok?”

“Reckon I might at that Julius! Anyway, that was my last clip.”

Looking around, Brennan saw a corpse with Garand ammo a few yards behind their position.

“I’m gonna get some more ammo. Be right back.”

Despite his shoulder wound, Brennan rolled out of the hollow and shuffled over to the body.

It was Addison Watkins.

He pulled at the webbing but his injuries betrayed him.

He had not even begun to get the ammunition when the IS-II shell arrived.

“Idiot man!” yelled the tank commander. “Wait until the tank stops before you fire. What a waste.”

He looked again at the target his gunner had engaged, a single American soldier, rolling around, clearly dazed and confused by the near miss.

“Driver, forward.”

He looked at the small group of Americans running into the village and decided they were worth a shell.

“Driver, halt. Gunner engage infantry to front, high-explosive, range eight hundred.”

“Ready.”

“Fire.”

The commander stuck his head out to better observe the carnage.

The huge 122mm lashed out another high-explosive shell, this time better aimed and it arrived where it was intended.

The two leading figures in the American group disappeared, vaporised in the explosion. Four other were tossed like rag dolls, smashed and broken by the blast.

A bazooka shell reached out from a position close on the left and exploded on the side of the turret just below the commander’s cupola.

The gunner screamed in horror as a headless corpse flopped into the tank, spraying the insides with copious amounts of blood.

Self-preservation took over and he rotated the turret, flaying the bazooka operator even as he struggled to reload his weapon.

A group of infantry beyond caught the crazed gunner’s attention and he called for H.E. The loader, completely rattled by the death of his commander had dropped one part of the shell on the turret floor and was trying to retrieve it.

The machine-gun spoke again and bowled two of the group over with impacts. A BA-64 armoured car swept past the IS-II, aiming bursts into the survivors and scoring hits in turn.

The gunner looked around for more enemies and saw again the stunned American, now on his knees.

“Driver, forward.”

Chekov had escaped without further injury, but how he didn’t know. Another eight of his men were dead and two wounded, all but one a head shot.

He took in the demise of the American rush with satisfaction, and turned his attention to the forlorn figure of the stunned American officer to his front.

Checking that the other group of Americans had been beaten down by the armoured car, he rose from his position and beckoned his men into loose line behind him.

The SVT was nearly out of ammo so, he took up a PPS sub-machine from one of his dead engineers, grabbing two more magazines and stuffing them in his tunic pocket.

As he walked forward, he determined to shoot the American out of hand.

He waved casually at the approaching heavy tank, before its true purpose was clear.

That moment of realisation converted him back from an avenger into a reasonable and honourable man, and he rushed forward in an attempt to save the unknown enemy.

His wounded leg gave way, partially through its own weakness from the calf wound and partially through a grass clump that Chekov clipped hard.

He fell headfirst, bringing him to the same level as the glassy eyed American.

From about twenty yards distance, Chekov screamed at man and tank in turn, until the unforgiving tracks pressed across the back of the American’s thighs, reducing them to a bloody pulp.