thump was the last sound of battle from across the river.
Efforts to raise Sunflower-seven were fruitless, and Hamuda correctly surmised that Haro and his men were dead, or worse, prisoners.
Thoughts of his comrades were swiftly brushed aside as enemy tanks and soldiers spilled out into the countryside across the river, the numbers growing every second he watched.
Snatching up the radio, Hamuda took in the situation, understanding that the final act was upon them.
He hesitated, the radio unused in his hand.
‘Why am I waiting?’
The leading American tanks opened fire on the move, their shells arriving on the north bank in an instant, throwing up gouts of earth and vegetation.
“Buffalo calling, Masami, Ashita, acknowledge.”
“Masami, over.”
“Ashita, over.”
“Buffalo calling, all units hold fire, except for Masami and Ashita, engage immediately, out.”
The two 75mm shells flew over the battlefield and sought out an enemy tank.
Masami’s round missed high, but Ashita’s struck the turret of the lead vehicle.
The Pershing shrugged off the hit with no apparent effect.
An exchange of rounds followed, as the US tanks opened up on their now revealed enemy.
Behind them, the other Pershings, the remainder of the tank battalion, had drawn up on the edge of some raised ground, using the defile to conceal their presence and intentions.
Firing from fixed positions, their rounds flew straight and true.
The ‘beauty’ that was Masami came apart under numerous impacts, the German armour succumbing to the heavy 90mm strikes.
Hirohata was blasted out from the turret by the first impact, rising into the air like a faulty firework, his battered body falling into soft undergrowth, preventing further damage from being added to his several new injuries.
His crew died inside the smashed Panther.
Shells continued to strike Masami, as she refused to catch alight and reveal her death.
Eventually, one struck home and set her afire, but even then, the fire was gentle, almost as if the battle-scarred tank still fought to retain her dignity.
On the eastern end of the line, shells had chewed up the ground around Ashita, and three had struck her cleanly, but none had penetrated or caused her major harm.
Sergeant Major Kagamutsu engaged the tank battalion to his front, now supported by the T34, which Hamuda had called forward.
Hamuda saw the wave of leading tanks drop down behind a small rise the other side of the river.
They did not reappear.
He understood immediately.
“Buffalo, all units, all units. Relocate immediately, relocate immediately!”
His understanding was punctuated by the sharp crack of tank guns, and immediately reinforced by the bursting of smoke shells in and around all his defensive positions.
The rush had been a simple ruse, one he had fallen for… had no alternative but to fall for…
A machine gun nearby chattered, the desperation of the gunner marked by an increased wailing as his target drew closer, and closer.
Voices were raised, fear and indignation carried in the words.
“Aircraft! Yankee aircraft!”
‘… fakku!’
“Buffalo, all units, Air attack!”
1157 hrs, Monday 10th June 1946, airborne over Baisha River valley, Zhujiawan, China.
In answer to the calls from the commander of CCB, 20th US Armored Division, two squadrons of Marine aviators were detached from the waiting queue of support aircraft, part of the Commanding General’s plan to limit risk and reduce casualties when dealing with the last fanatical pockets of Japanese resistance.
Leading the way were VMF-312, a Marine fighter squadron riding FG-1 Corsairs, decked out with the distinctive checkerboard markings of their unit.
Three minutes behind them were the F8F-1 Bearcats of VF-191, working from a shore base whilst their carrier, USS Antietam, was away getting her bow welded back on after an encounter with an enemy mine.
The Corsairs attacked in line, not column, a deadly line that was three
Efforts to raise Sunflower-seven were fruitless, and Hamuda correctly surmised that Haro and his men were dead, or worse, prisoners.
Thoughts of his comrades were swiftly brushed aside as enemy tanks and soldiers spilled out into the countryside across the river, the numbers growing every second he watched.
Snatching up the radio, Hamuda took in the situation, understanding that the final act was upon them.
He hesitated, the radio unused in his hand.
‘Why am I waiting?’
The leading American tanks opened fire on the move, their shells arriving on the north bank in an instant, throwing up gouts of earth and vegetation.
“Buffalo calling, Masami, Ashita, acknowledge.”
“Masami, over.”
“Ashita, over.”
“Buffalo calling, all units hold fire, except for Masami and Ashita, engage immediately, out.”
The two 75mm shells flew over the battlefield and sought out an enemy tank.
Masami’s round missed high, but Ashita’s struck the turret of the lead vehicle.
The Pershing shrugged off the hit with no apparent effect.
An exchange of rounds followed, as the US tanks opened up on their now revealed enemy.
Behind them, the other Pershings, the remainder of the tank battalion, had drawn up on the edge of some raised ground, using the defile to conceal their presence and intentions.
Firing from fixed positions, their rounds flew straight and true.
The ‘beauty’ that was Masami came apart under numerous impacts, the German armour succumbing to the heavy 90mm strikes.
Hirohata was blasted out from the turret by the first impact, rising into the air like a faulty firework, his battered body falling into soft undergrowth, preventing further damage from being added to his several new injuries.
His crew died inside the smashed Panther.
Shells continued to strike Masami, as she refused to catch alight and reveal her death.
Eventually, one struck home and set her afire, but even then, the fire was gentle, almost as if the battle-scarred tank still fought to retain her dignity.
On the eastern end of the line, shells had chewed up the ground around Ashita, and three had struck her cleanly, but none had penetrated or caused her major harm.
Sergeant Major Kagamutsu engaged the tank battalion to his front, now supported by the T34, which Hamuda had called forward.
Hamuda saw the wave of leading tanks drop down behind a small rise the other side of the river.
They did not reappear.
He understood immediately.
“Buffalo, all units, all units. Relocate immediately, relocate immediately!”
His understanding was punctuated by the sharp crack of tank guns, and immediately reinforced by the bursting of smoke shells in and around all his defensive positions.
The rush had been a simple ruse, one he had fallen for… had no alternative but to fall for…
A machine gun nearby chattered, the desperation of the gunner marked by an increased wailing as his target drew closer, and closer.
Voices were raised, fear and indignation carried in the words.
“Aircraft! Yankee aircraft!”
‘… fakku!’
“Buffalo, all units, Air attack!”
1157 hrs, Monday 10th June 1946, airborne over Baisha River valley, Zhujiawan, China.
In answer to the calls from the commander of CCB, 20th US Armored Division, two squadrons of Marine aviators were detached from the waiting queue of support aircraft, part of the Commanding General’s plan to limit risk and reduce casualties when dealing with the last fanatical pockets of Japanese resistance.
Leading the way were VMF-312, a Marine fighter squadron riding FG-1 Corsairs, decked out with the distinctive checkerboard markings of their unit.
Three minutes behind them were the F8F-1 Bearcats of VF-191, working from a shore base whilst their carrier, USS Antietam, was away getting her bow welded back on after an encounter with an enemy mine.
The Corsairs attacked in line, not column, a deadly line that was three
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