The Iron Stallions (32 page)

‘You’re free to act as you wish, Toby,’ he said. ‘But keep the regiment together. I want us all to arrive at once, so they can’t concentrate on hitting us in penny numbers.’

The three regiments had spread out frontally now into line abreast by squadrons, disposing themselves in an irregular pattern. In the days of horsed cavalry, it was what was known as artillery formation. War had taught that advancing in tight lines against guns didn’t pay, and the feeling that this was a true cavalry exploit was not far away from any of them. On this day of all days, the old spirit would be needed and constantly Josh’s thoughts went back to his grandfather at Balaclava. Mounts might change and weapons might be different but regimental spirit didn’t vary.

Reeves indicated the sky. ‘I have a suspicion we’re being watched,’ he said.

Josh knew exactly what he meant. If there were ghosts of dead cavalrymen then they must surely have their eyes on them at that moment.

The regiments waited in the order in which they had moved forward, the Hussars on the right, the Lancers in the centre, the Yeomanry on the left. A few companies of infantry had been brought up in carriers or on foot and were among the ruined houses just to the rear.

As they waited, to Josh it seemed for all the world as if they were sitting in the saddle, the reins hanging loosely from the bit. Around him, heads were peering from the turrets in the wan moonlight. Ahead of them the night seemed empty, the Drosseltal a cold blue vastness reaching to the stars.

Inside the tank the crew were quiet but Josh was well aware of the strain and fatigue they felt. Harbottle nervously tested his traverse. Robinson fingered the ammunition as the radios ceased their chatter. Nobody spoke but in the light from the dials Josh could see Ackroyd’s fingers white as he grasped the sticks. His jaw was set but there was a small nerve twitching in his cheek.

Then, almost unexpectedly, the barrage burst in front of them, lifting the floor of the valley in a whirling mass of dust, smoke and flame that lit up the houses by the canal like ghosts.

At five minutes to the half-hour, the guns increased in intensity, a canopy of shells whistling overhead. On the half-hour there was the shrill blast of a whistle and the infantry rose to their feet and started walking forward. Josh picked up the microphone. ‘Hello, all stations Demo, all stations Demo. Advance now to Blue. I say again, advance now to Blue.’

Gears clicked and clutches were engaged. Tanks jerked and began to move forward in the gloom. As the leading squadrons closed the barrage, moving up to the curtain of smoke and dust, the line of bursting shells jumped a hundred yards and they moved with it.

Josh was riding outside the tank now to get a better view, wearing only his faded green forage cap, his face set, his head moving sharply to left and right, watchful for any sign of hesitation. Suddenly out of the smother of smoke small parties of Germans rose and began to run. The Besas and Brownings chattered and many of them fell; others immediately threw up their hands. Several staggered about, some of them weeping and half-hysterical after the shelling. The tank commanders lifted their hands and jerked a thumb rearwards. Stumbling through the formations, blinded by the smoke and deafened by the din, a few crossed the route of the tanks.

‘Oh, Christ!’ Josh heard Ackroyd yell, then he heard a man scream as he was caught by the tank treads and whipped beneath. As they moved ahead, he lay like a crushed insect on the stained earth. Nobody said anything, all of them trying to force the incident from their minds.

They were into the minefield now and tank after tank went up, each one lurching to a standstill. The Germans immediately began to plaster them with artillery. Crews began to bale out and Josh saw one group, running rearwards, surrounded by smoke, flying stones and earth. As they passed him, their numbers had been halved. A tank nearby began to move aside to take evasive action and Josh yelled down to Ackroyd and they moved alongside so he could shout across the intervening space over the din as the armour-piercing shot flashed between them.

‘Get on, man,’ he yelled. ‘Where are you going? Get on!

‘Keep going!’

Their machine guns blazing, they had reached the road that crossed the valley, but the darkness was almost totally gone now and, as the sky began to lighten, the enemy guns began to hammer them. Some of the surrendering Germans, seeing their opportunity, ran back to their weapons. A wall loomed up and it was impossible to see the German guns, so that they could only lash the land ahead with their machine guns. The approaching sun was tinting the funeral plumes of dying tanks like blood. As day came, the telegraph poles became silver-edged and in the thin light Josh saw a gunpit just ahead, gunners struggling to bring their weapon to bear.

‘The gunpit, Ackroyd! Dead ahead! Full speed! Gunner, let ’em have it!’

The gun cracked and he heard the clatter of the ejected cartridge. The gun barrel was still moving as the tank straddled it, the whole huge weapon wrenched into a twisted mass of wreckage. As they backed off, Josh saw Reeves’ tank poised on the edge of another gunpit to his right, its machine guns wiping out the crew. Shattered or crushed, the guns began to fall silent but the big 88s and 7.62s on either side of the valley were opening fire through the mist. Reeves’ tank began to burn and Josh saw him leap out, run back and clamber on to the tank behind. Pallovicini’s tank lurched to a stop, smoke pouring from its louvres, then as the crew scrambled clear, it was overwhelmed in an explosion and a sheet of white flame that sent debris and huge dark clouds of smoke up into the sky. A man with his clothes on fire was rolling in the dewy grass, while his friends slapped him with their bare hands trying to put out the flames. Somewhere inside a man was screaming above the clatter of tracks and the bursting of shells.

Josh was standing upright on his tank now in front of the guns. The brigade major was close behind as he had been throughout the advance. ‘I wish you’d get down a bit, sir,’ he yelled.

Josh ignored him, indifferent to the gun blasts, the chattering machine guns and the heavy shots that screamed by in red and white darts, hitting the sloping sides of the tanks and ricocheting in high parabolas into the sky. The 19th were almost through and Reeves was standing up on a new tank, a microphone to his mouth, waving his arms to encourage his men forward, clearly prepared to lose the whole regiment, if necessary, in the hope that the following 92nd would take up where they left off. Their attack had been a complete success so far and they had got right among the first line of the enemy guns, dug-in tanks and machine guns before the Germans knew what was happening. German gunners were throwing up their hands, concerned now chiefly with escaping being crushed to death, and dozens of them seemed to be streaming away, jumping into whatever transport was handy. Four German officers scrambled into a staff car and Josh took a pot-shot at it with his revolver. To his astonishment it burst into flames and the officers all baled out again, and stood with their hands in the air.

Dodgin was leading A Squadron of the 19th up and down, crushing the trails of guns so they couldn’t be towed away. His tank in a protecting gunpit, Josh heard his voice come through on the radio. ‘Daisy Leader, we’re through at this point, but there’s another line of guns ahead. I’m moving up to them.’

As the sky grew lighter Josh saw the ground all round Reeves’ tanks explode where the anti-tank guns had spotted them. Four tanks seemed to burst into flames simultaneously and he saw Reeves once more running into the smoke, looking for another tank.

Trying to bring some order to the confusion, he saw a line of tanks approaching in the distance and assumed it was the Hussars or the Yeomanry. Then there was a tremendous clang and his tank lurched to a standstill, the armour glowing red where the shot had hit. They scrambled clear, hoping the brigade major’s tank would be just behind, but the brigade major had disappeared so they scrambled on to the next tank that appeared and ordered the crew out.

It was possible to see now that the oncoming tanks were German and Josh wondered where in God’s name they’d come from. Reeves’ squadrons were under heavy fire again from both the guns and the advancing tanks, and one or two were being forced backwards, the survivors from wrecked vehicles huddled round them.

The panzers were within a few hundred yards, adding their fire to that of the guns ahead and on the slopes on either side.

‘Harbottle! Tank on the end of the line! On!’

There was a flash on the German tank then ammunition and fuel began to burn, throwing sparks in all directions, the thin crackle of exploding cartridges rising over the din of the battle. For a moment the flames and smoke seemed to hesitate, then the tank blew up. A ball of fire appeared at the base of the turret, slowly expanding as it lifted the turret and shattered the sides. Out of the flames the debris spread upwards, littering the ground for yards around with sparks and burning fragments, while feathery plumes of white arched out of open hatchways as the smoke bombs caught fire. The whole area was lit by a brilliant light then, as suddenly as they had flared up, the flames died away, leaving only a pall of black smoke lit by the spluttering remains of the tank. For a moment they were awed into silence then the radios started again, and almost at once the Germans began to hit back viciously.

Four more tanks were hit and all round Josh others were blazing, filling the air with the acrid smell of burning rubber. A group on his left was firing at a battery but panzers started hitting them one after the other and he saw the Shermans swing to face them. The advance had run into serious trouble and the whole world seemed to be full of flashing lights, flame, smoke, burning vehicles, lumbering shapes and men on their feet firing with small arms at anything they could see.

It was full daylight as Reeves appeared in front. He was struggling with his gunner to extricate his driver and co-driver whose apertures had been locked fast by the shell that had hit his tank. The armour was already red hot from the flames that were leaping out behind, and a group of German gunners started firing on them with machine pistols.

‘Gunner,’ Josh shouted. ‘Left! Further left! On! Let ’em have it!’

The Germans fell back in the trench as Reeves gave up his struggle and began to make his way back.

As Josh’s tank passed him, there was a clang of steel on the front of the turret which sent fitments flying, then a blast of flame and smoke which spread into the turret and was followed by another dull explosion. The shock wave swept past Josh as he stood in the cupola, singeing his hands and face and leaving him breathless. The shot had penetrated the hull and twisted the machine gun out of its mounting. A jagged piece of metal had torn Robinson’s head from his shoulders, wrecked the radio and started a fire in the ammunition boxes on the floor. Smoke and cordite fumes filled the turret and on the floor, licking menacingly near the main stowage bin, were innumerable small tongues of flame. For a moment, Josh was too dazed to move, his limbs anchored, and Ackroyd turned a blackened, scorched face to him, his eyes unnaturally large.

‘Let’s get out, sir!’

They struggled free and ran back, still dazed, to clamber on to the next tank that appeared. The radio was out of action so Josh tapped the commander on the shoulder. He was a young officer he couldn’t remember seeing before and he seemed to be only just out of school.

He gestured at the German fire which now seemed to be directed to the tanks on the left, and ordered the young officer to lead his troop to the right. As another squadron came up from behind, he scrambled down and ran across to the leading tank and shouted up.

‘Go through on your right,’ he yelled, pointing. ‘There’s a rise there that will hide you a little.’

As he returned towards the tank he had taken over, he saw it being hit repeatedly and then that his orders had been misunderstood by the new squadron which was driving straight ahead into the furnace of fire. In a few moments, the leading tank was on fire and several others behind were stopped and smoking.

He scrambled with Ackroyd and Harbottle on to another tank. ‘Keep going,’ he shouted above the din. Gesturing for the microphone, he began to issue orders. ‘Keep going! Get through!’

‘Get stuffed!’ The voice belonged to some disgusted NCO who was assuming he had lost his head.

As the dawn mist evaporated, Josh glanced towards the west, wondering where 92nd Armoured were. He had expected them to come through on his heels by this time but there was no sign of them against the lightening horizon, nothing but the wreckage of tanks, guns and men. As far as the eye could see the brigade lay shattered, tank after tank burning, the smoke mingling with the morning mist, the flames touching everything within reach with the colour of blood, only a single tank still defiantly shooting it out here and there with the distant guns.

The devastation was appalling. Dead and dying littered the route across the valley, in trucks and bren carriers, in trenches and over the trails of guns, some silent and grey, others noisy with pain. Trucks, guns, ammunition, odd bits of clothing were burning and tanks of all kinds, both British and German, were scattered over the whole area, with no logic to where they lay. They faced every possible direction, intermingled, crippled and distorted, their crews around them, stretched out, sitting, sprawling. Some seemed untouched and only the pallor stopped you calling out to them. The doctor, the padre and the technical adjutant ranged among them, doing what they could. Over the whole area was a brooding air of death.

Bitterness raised the taste of bile in Josh’s mouth. He was furiously angry. He had sacrificed everything in the hope that the 92nd would be there to crash through the breaches he had torn in the wall of guns, but the support they’d been expecting had not materialised, and, still firing at the deadly 88s, the surviving Shermans were struggling to push eastwards on their own. As they shook themselves out, expecting a counter-attack, Josh tried to count.

Small groups of men, some of them bleeding, all of them grey-faced with shock, were huddling behind hulls of stopped tanks. An officer was lying on the ground, his face white, blood on his chest. Here and there a small group tried to make their way back with a desperately wounded comrade.