The ground was hopelessly broken before us with 'Ire of Wiltshire's' suspension creaking idly as the Cromwell's engine purred with eagerness, waiting like a kettle near boil to explode with all of it's barely contained power. Still, each time the vehicle began to slip, and the engine rev, the driver, with his experience ever a blessing to my command, reigned it in.

The 25-Pounder fire had battered away the enemy, and churned the ground up until it closely resembled the better parts of the Somme battlefield. The Boshe had dug in heavily on the reverse slope they were about to slowly crest, and, though the fire had now thoroughly eradicated them, we had no idea the depth of their defense.

I was in my youth however, and confidence had betrayed me for not the last time, as I'd eschewed a standard line-abreast, hoping to mount the hill quickly, before any defenders remaining could reorganize. As such my tanks were following in a disorganized chevron behind, the nearest perhaps one hundred feet, whilst I stood in the turret, one hand drumming eagerly against the roof, and the other gripped the microphone with which I was distracting myself, directing tanks to avoid the bad spots behind up, head turned back rather then forward.

I'd left the setting on intercom, a common mistake, which whilst normally resulted only in the minor humiliation of rattling off a detailed report to one's commander, only to greeted with an apologetic, if chuckling George, telling me that he appreciated the formality, but that he was quite up to speed, as he was four feet to my front, driving the tank. On this occasion, it was nearly much more serious.

The Cromwell was, relatively, a low tank, but despite this, my eye-line from just above the turret flattened over the crest. It was expected then, that by the time the enemy saw us, I at least, would have seen them, and could warn the squadron.

I thus, turned, and to my utter horror, found myself greeted with the simultaneous appearance of an enemy vehicle, a fixed-hull tank destroyer of the medium type, with tattered camouflage hanging from it's terrifying 75mm gun, and it's commander, staring back at me with equal terror. We were no more then twenty meters from each other, but his vehicle was side-on to mine.

He reacted faster, and dove into the turret, with the vehicle beginning to slowly swing it's great bulk, and thus, line of fire into us. The sudden roaring motion, of spurt of black smoke broke me from the momentary stupor which had ensconced my mind, and I screamed into the microphone, voice shrill and hand shaking. "Squadron, contact front! Lancaster Two, to your four o'clock! Forwards and engage the bastard!"

I didn't bother to look back, instead immediately switching to what I thought was my intercom, but was, in fact, my radio one. "Gunner! Reload AP, traverse left!"

The noncompliance with my first order, by virtue of not checking it, escaped my notice, but when the turret remained still, even as the enemy swung around, inexorably towards us, I realised my mistake. My hand searched, desperately for the knob again in the dark as I'd released it in my panic, and after a moment, I found payment. Intercom.

"GUNNER! CHRIST JOHN, FIRE!" Just as I spoke, the experienced man, blinded by the metal box around his head as he was, at last picked up the target. He laid the gun with just as much panic as I, and, thinking nothing of the ammunition, loosed a round into the StuG that was now at least half-way facing us. There was an almighty explosion, one I'd never quite gotten used to, and then another, much more powerful and visible one inches in front of me a 75mm High-Explosive barreled into the hull, and burst in a hellstorm of shrapnel and cordite.

I was dazed, and so, presumably moreso, was the enemy gunner, as a moment later, his own gun laid on target, and he returned our fire, striking oblique against my barely-showing hull and ricocheting away in a shower of sparks.

The hull vibrated dreadfully as the tank-destroyer stopped dead in front of us, desperately trying to correct his aim, and presumably, cram a new shell down the barrel faster then we could. My loader, unfortunately, had been against the wall that was hit, trying to get a shell of his own, and a rivet had broken free and blinded him. He was stoic about the whole afair, but blood was streaking down from the shallow, but nuisance wounds on his forehead. He couldn't see a thing.

I was in a similar condition, as the transformation from dazzling-blast of high explosive to dank interior let my hand slip on the microphone when their returned shot had hit. I screamed out orders I barely remember, and the tank, which had kept trundling obstinately onward, as the driver tried to fight through our chatter to get orders.

He had to be near his second shot, and I knew it, so in one great act of desperation, I kicked hard against the driver's shoulders. Immediately, I heard a roar, as he laid on his accelerator, and the Cromwell's long-restrained engine answered gainfully. The tank surged forward with a great back-blast of flame from it's exhaust and engine deck, and I felt the acceleration along with the sickness of anxiety in the pit of my stomach.

We smashed forward, breaking through some kind of fence that I'd missed in the undergrowth, and struck the slightly-turned German at an odd angle.
Immediately, I was thrown forward, striking my head on the turret ring and seeing stars, as the rest of my crew were similarly knocked about. A shower of sparks poured in, with flying rivets, and a horrible, metallic ripping noise that, lord be praised, was coming from the German.

A great arc of our kit, bedrolls, and personal belongings soared from the engine deck and tread-guards as we nearly carried the lighter tank destroyer off it's treads and onto it's side.

I don't know exactly what happened, as I was senseless for a few moments more from the impact, but, practically crawling from the turret, I was greeted with the equally, equally scruffy, tumbling from their own machine, with one being physically ill on the ground in front of us, hands in the air.

We'd practically fused their left axle with their hull, and the spall of shredded German tracks and our badly-bent hull had clearly raked the immediate vicinity. Their gun-barrel was jammed perhaps ten degrees higher then it aught go, and cracks in it's mantle indicated we'd snapped the breach in two. Despite it being the most harrowing wreck of my life, they'd somehow gotten the worse of it.

Legs still shaking, I found my service revolver, and clambered, hesitantly, from the turret ring to take my new prisoners.