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Machine-gun fire streamed from the windows of the apartment building, rounds clattering against the steel hide of the Sherman. Semyon winced at the muffled impacts, swivelling his head about in the cupola, trying to locate the MG. On either side of the tank, the submachine-gunners, all veterans, took cover, returning fire while they waited for the Sherman to knock out the gun. The flashes drew his eyes to an upper window, where a pair of helmets bobbed, their wearers working a machine-gun back and forth, raking the street below.
“There he is! Gunner, fourth floor, on the right!” He yelled, the gun elevating in response as Petrov brought his own gunsight onto the target. The 76mm flashed to life, the shell finding its mark and the upper façade of the apartment exploded, raining debris. Semyon cheered. The infantry, now freed of the suppressive fire, began to advance once more.
Semyon's reverie was shattered by a rocket shrieking past the tank and slamming into a wall on the other side of the street. “Panzerfaust!” someone screamed. Semyon blinked away the sweat and scanned the street, his earlier celebration replaced by fear that a second rocket might be more accurate than the first.
“There!” In a doorway crouched a German, a discarded panzerfaust at his feet, another in his hands. “He’s on the right!” Semyon cried, the turret moving in response, Petrov bringing the gun to bear on this new threat.
Suddenly the Sherman rocked again, the turret skewing to one side as it suddenly reversed, the hull machine-gun spitting death at the enemy tank-hunter. “Quick thinking Dmitry” Semyon gasped, letting out a tense sigh.
Moments later the Sherman was moving once more, cautiously inching forwards, the crew alert, acutely aware of the perils of overconfidence.
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