Last Citadel

by David L. Robbins

  The Russian sheered off from his swerving headlong dash. Luis had guessed he would. The T-34 bounded to the left, to advance down the damaged side of the Tiger. Damn it, Luis thought. He’s going for the port bogey wheels again! One more hit there and the Tiger will lose a track, we’ll only go in circles. Of course!

  ‘Driver! Turn to him. Keep him away from the side. I want frontal armor on him! Move!’

  The Tiger jerked to a stop. Gears and driveshaft howled. The Tiger came out of reverse and lurched forward now, spinning only the right tread to push the tank around to the left. Balthasar worked the traverse to catch up with the enemy boring in alongside. Again the swift T-34 managed to stay just ahead of the rotating cannon. But this time the whole crew knew what this Russian had in store. The Tiger’s driver did a better job of swinging the chassis around to keep their front trained on the Russian. Balthasar’s gun slid ahead of the T-34.

  ‘Got him,’ intoned the gunner.

  ‘No. Stay on him. He’ll stop in a moment. Then.’

  ‘Ja’

  The Red tank kept up its dash along the left side, two hundred meters off and angling in, narrowing the distance. Balthasar’s gun moved with the Russian. Luis stared hard at the T-34. Something was wrong. He raised his binoculars and focused on the neat hole in the center of the Russian’s turret. Luis recalled the shot, one of Balthasar’s first in the sunflower field. The .88 shell had sliced right through the Russian tank like cheese and left it standing in the field, spookily intact but surely dead. This loco Soviet driver and his gunner had somehow survived the hit on their own tank. They’d crept into this one, mice to the cheese, and brought the tank alive for another go at the big cat, Luis’s retreating Tiger.

  Why, Luis thought? It’s insane to come back. I killed you once, I’ll do it again! In his mind he hurled this at the Russian tank but felt his warning glance off the slanted green armor. No, they won’t heed. The Russians are maniacs, reckless, just like Hitler says, unflinching, witless, subhumans. Do you have to kill them all more than once, is that how this war is going to go? Luis was hungry and had no food. He needed to get his damaged tank repaired, he needed to leave and return to the battle with haste, everything with haste; history and glory look slow in books but these things are only made in flashes of opportunity, by the hand on the trigger. He was incensed that this single T-34 wouldn’t let him back away. Luis had already killed this man and this tank! The Russian driver and his gunner were using up more than their allotments of one life each. In Spanish under his breath he cursed them, glaring down the rotating barrel of the Tiger’s gun. He would have to stop backing away and fight, though he did not want to, he did not have time for this. The thought of killing something or someone twice did not sit with him, not with what he knew and expected of God and death. This was wrong. This whispered to him with the voice of the T-34’s winding diesel - close enough now to breathe in his ear - of mala suerte, bad, bad luck.

  Just as he predicted, the T-34 stopped, like an arrow finding its mark, sudden but this time unremarkable. The Russian slid to a halt straight at the end of Balthasar’s barrel. Its own cannon was off, not fixed on the Tiger.

  ‘Now?’ Balthasar asked.

  Why stop there, Luis wondered? Why not outrun our turret again? There’s nothing the Russian can do, not even this close, a hundred meters away. His round will smack the frontal plating of the Tiger and make no more than a deep dent. One word to Balthasar and I’ll blow him backward another hundred meters.

  Why isn’t his turret moving? He hasn’t aimed at us yet. What is he… ?

  The T-34 idled.

  The Tiger was broadside to the sunflower field, facing the decoy. Luis looked across the short distance into the open driver’s hatch. He saw a white face and a bloody palm waving hello. Or goodbye.

  ‘Now?’ Balthasar pressed.

  Luis turned only his head, knowing he could not turn his tank fast enough.

  * * * *

  1014 hours

  Valentin’s shell hit the Tiger on the starboard bogeys. Dimitri watched the big tank vanish in a maelstrom of smoke and flash. He balled his open hand into a fist and shook it at the instant fireball. He shouted into the din, ‘Good shot, son! Now hit him again!’ The explosion was done in a moment. The Tiger weathered the hit with incredible brawn, it barely shuddered. It was a stupendous sight to see how much damage it could take. When the smoke receded, the German commander was not standing in his cupola. He’d either been blown out or ducked at the last instant.

  Valentin was alone in the General. The son would have to scoot around the hot extended breech, dig up another AP round from the bins, ram the shell into the breech, and get back to his optics. Any adjustment to his targeting would have to be made with the hand cranks. Valya had a broken nose, and who knew what other injuries, to deal with. Valentin would do what he had to do, no question. Dimitri grinned up into the dark bore of the Tiger’s cannon, proud and certain that this best trait of his own, if none of the others, would stay alive in his son.

  His hands and feet were ready to shift into gear. The Tiger smoked, brooding. The big tank was bruised, but how badly? Could Valentin fire again and kill it before the Tiger recovered?

  The Tiger’s enormous engine roared. Its transmission engaged, black exhaust expelled, the tracks of both sides shrieked over damaged wheels.

  The tank bucked backward ten meters.

  The Tiger could still move!

  Dimitri cursed. Now Valya would have to take aim again. Without the General’s hydraulics, this would take precious seconds, perhaps more than Valentin had. Damn it!

  The Tiger backed and pivoted to the right, racking itself to turn toward the center of the field, a great wounded creature and now certainly angry. Its cannon traversed away from Dimitri, careless for his curses or his life. He was no threat, a T-34 with no gunner, with holes in his turret.

  In the Tiger’s cupola, the commander reappeared. He waved back at Dimitri, blood on his hand, too. Then he pivoted, with binoculars pressed to his brow, his turret rotating around him. He ignored Dimitri.

  The German turned to his right, to Valentin.

  Dimitri spit again into the red bog beneath his boots. Enough, he thought. He shifted the T-34 into gear and mashed the accelerator. Let’s shake these bloody hands.

  The German commander’s face left his binoculars, not ignoring Dimitri now.

  * * * *

  1014 hours

  Luis believed only for the first second that the loco Russian was leaving. The T-34’s treads spun, again with that unlikely acceleration, and the tank with the dead turret turned in to the rain.

  Then the Russian swerved back at the Tiger. He angled to the right, racing to stay ahead of the Tiger’s turning cannon.

  Balthasar’s voice bit through the engine clamor.

  ‘What’s he doing?’

  The gunner had finally gone urgent. Luis fought to keep panic out of his own throat. He needed to give an order, but confusion and dismay delayed him. He was divided in half: one Red tank drew a bead on him from four hundred meters off; another bore in crazily from a hundred meters away. Something wasn’t fair here, the mala suerte. He felt like he’d stepped in a hornet’s nest, why were they coming after him like this? These two madmen working in tandem, why?

  Luis found his voice. Only a moment had passed, but all that remained was moments.

  ‘Gunner, stay on target.’

  The Tiger’s turret continued to rotate clockwise around Luis. The T-34 out there with the live cannon had to be handled first.

  ‘Driver, keep backing, keep turning!’

  ‘Ja’

  The damage to the starboard bogeys was bad but no worse than the port wheels. The Tiger could still stumble along slowly, could still get out of this valley. But there was nothing Luis could do to avoid this crazy T-34 closing in. He could have Balthasar try to shoot him down, but that would delay dealing with the other, more dangerous Red tank. The Russian driver continued to skid
around to the right, stubbornly staying in front of the pivoting Tiger. With every meter, the Russian tightened his course.

  Luis could not use binoculars to check on the shooting T-34 out there in the mist, he had to cut his eyes back and forth between the two attackers. Across the sunflower field, the shooter’s power was down; he was aiming at the retreating Tiger manually. Balthasar, with all his hydraulics running, ought to be able to fix on the Russian gunner first, if Luis could keep everyone calm.

  What to do with this charging cabron? Kill him, too.

  ‘Bow gunner!’

  ‘Ja!’

  ‘Aim at the driver’s hatch!’

  The machine-gun in the Tiger’s glacis plate added its bursts to the rising din of those desperate seconds. Bullets scorched out of the ball-mounted barrel, tattooing against the wheeling T-34. The rounds ricocheted, striking sparks from the armor. The Russian tank was too much broadside for the bow gunner to have a shot into the open driver’s hatch. The Russian bobbed and weaved and drew closer, still running ahead of Balthasar’s traversing turret. Luis shook his head at what he saw: this damned driver was only seventy-five meters away now and gaining speed, insanity! What is he doing? I’m simply going to kill the shooter’s tank - again! - then I’m going to kill him! What is he doing? Why? Something, something is wrong.

  He tore his gaze from the charging tank to glance down the length of the Tiger’s cannon. Across the valley the shooter would be in Balthasar’s sights in moments. Just fifteen more degrees clockwise. Come on, Luis urged. His thin chest tightened. Come on! He couldn’t determine through the haze if the Red gunner had them in his own sights yet. But he had no time left to focus on the shooter. Here came the other one.

  The speeding Russian tank leveled out, no more dodges marred his approach. He charged straight in, on a diagonal at the Tiger’s starboard fender. The angle from the right was too sharp, he was beyond the bow gunner’s reach. Luis heard the crazy driver pop his clutch and shift gears, hitting full stride.

  ‘Driver!’ Luis hollered, but he had no orders. Someone, several voices, screamed, ‘Look out! He’s… !’

  He’s what? Luis clenched his hands on the cupola rim, bracing for the impact. His mind raced, fast as the charging T-34. He’s what? Going to ram us? And seconds after the minor shock of it we’re still going to blow up his damned mate across the field; then we’re going to pull back from the collision, depress Balthasar’s cannon and kill him. What the hell is he… ?

  In the last mote of time, before the final meter between the T-34 and the Tiger slammed shut, Luis understood.

  He’s not crazy. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

  The Russian hit hard. He rammed the middle of his glacis plate into the Tiger’s right-hand fender. Luis was jolted but his massive tank held its ground, it weighed more than twice the T-34.

  Luis roared, ‘Back! Keep backing!’

  The Tiger tried to pull away from the Russian, the huge Maybach engine strained to revolve the tracks over injured wheels. The screech of metal against metal was excruciating. The T-34 had hit with so much speed and momentum it lodged itself against the Tiger’s starboard drive sprocket. The right side of the Tiger was tangled and numbed.

  ‘Driver, port tracks! Full reverse!’

  The left-hand treads spun. The Tiger began to peel away from the T-34.

  The Russian would not allow this. He hit his gas and the gap closed instantly. The T-34 kept its weight butted against the starboard drive sprocket. With just one working track, the Tiger could only drag itself in a circle.

  ‘He’s not letting go!’ The driver cried out the obvious.

  Balthasar shouted, ‘Captain!’

  Luis did not need to hear Balthasar’s next words. He saw for himself the extent of what the loco Russian had done, the method in his madness.

  The T-34’s cannon had cut in front of the Tiger’s long gun, the two long barrels were crossed like fencing swords. Luis’s turret was stopped dead, the hydraulic traverse whined in frustration. As long as the tanks stayed jammed together, Balthasar could not rotate clockwise any farther, not the last few crucial degrees toward the shooter across the field.

  Luis leaned forward in his cupola to peer down on the smashing T-34. The smaller tank had both tracks stroking wildly, kicking up mud and bits of ruined flowers, as though racing over the valley instead of plunging only torturous centimeters. The two tanks spit billows of exhaust, their squalling engines pushed and pulled but without decision, they were fused as much by force as willpower. Luis leaned out to his right, to look down into the Russian’s open hatch. He caught a glimpse of matted gray hair. The face tilted up at him. It was sharp-nosed, grimy and determined. Luis wanted to ask, Is this how you wanted to end up, old man? Here, with me? He yearned to climb down and poke his head into the hatch, to tell the driver - not such a lunatic, now, it seemed - to go away, that Luis didn’t want to end up here, either.

  The driver bared his teeth up at Luis, either a smile or grim intent. The Tiger kept trying to disengage, bucking and humping backward, both tanks howled. The old man would not let loose. His partner the shooter was still out there, aiming at a Tiger that was being wrestled to a standstill. But the shooter’s tank was immobile, and the Tiger still had its thick frontal armor facing him.

  Maybe he won’t shoot, Luis thought. The one out there. Maybe he’s waiting for reinforcements to come teeming after us. Or maybe he won’t shoot and risk killing this old man. This what… beloved commander, friend, uncle? Or father?

  ‘Yes,’ Luis said, and the word was buried, even he could not hear it through the clamor of the entangled machines.

  Maybe the shooter would wait. But Luis could not.

  He tore his cloth helmet from the intracom, leaving the cable looped over the back of his chair. He hoisted his legs out of the cupola and climbed onto the broad turret deck. He drew his Luger sidearm into a blood-crusted hand. The Tiger rollicked from the ramming Russian. Luis knelt to steady himself. He inched forward like a sailor in a tempest. He raised the Luger and snapped off a shot at the T-34’s open driver’s hatch. The Russian’s head ducked, the round glanced off the armor.

  Luis crept closer to the rim of the deck for a better look at the Russian. There was the old man’s chest, his gray coveralls.

  Luis raised the Luger.

  ‘Bastante!’ he yelled down at the Russian. ‘Bastante, cabron!’

  The gun wavered with the swaying deck. His bloodied finger tightened on the trigger.

  The Tiger’s turret moved beneath him.

  What? Luis muttered, ‘Que pasa?’

  He pulled his eye off the pistol to look down under his boots.

  The turret was turning! The long .88 barrel pivoted counterclockwise, freed from the Russian’s blocking cannon.

  Damn it! Balthasar couldn’t wait! Stupid! Without orders the gunner was traversing the turret the opposite direction, rotating all the way around to the left for a shot at the Red shooter.

  Balthasar, the thousand-year Aryan, was turning the Tiger’s vulnerable side armor to the sunflower field!

  Luis dropped the pistol. He dove backward for the commander’s hatch. The turret whined to the left, every second revealing more of its thinner side plating to the Soviet shooter. He rammed his head down into the hatch, past Thoma’s blood, and screamed, ‘No! Stop! Stop!’

  Balthasar had his back turned, his attention was riveted into his optics. Beside the gunner, on the far side of the immense breech, the loader looked up from his seat. Luis screamed at him, gesturing frantically at Balthasar, ‘Stop the turret! Stop him!’ The loader looked stunned, no idea what was going on. ‘Stop him!’ Luis screamed.

  Beneath Luis the turret kept turning, the huge turret with the undefeatable cannon.

  Luis fumbled for the cord to re-connect himself to the intracom. His fingers waggled at it, just out of reach. He’d have to clamber down to his seat to retrieve it, plug in, and scream into the microphone. That would be too late.
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  The loader got the idea. He set down the shell he cradled. He rose from his seat and leaned far across the breech to tap Balthasar on the back, saying something into the intracom. Balthasar was rapt and did not turn away from his eyepiece. There was a comic aspect to the loader’s calm, he was oblivious to their peril. Luis watched the slow drift of events, more seconds gone. The loader was a dead man. So was Balthasar. Luis did not bother to inform them.