by Barry Sadler
"Langer, you and the others stay with your tanks. Your crews will join you shortly. As I said, I'm glad to have you back. There are not so many of us as when you left. I'm glad you were sent to the training regiment. We will talk later." Turning, he left the drivers to their own devices, which meant lighting up or chewing on black bread and washing it down with tepid water from their canteens, until their crews showed up and identified themselves.
All had the look of tough men who had seen Ivan's ass on the run too many times to be frightened when they saw him coming at them. They were the victors of Operation Barbarossa, which had driven to the gates of Moscow and left three million Russians dead or in the bag.
Gerfreiter Stefan Carrel, driver, came over smiling, his face thinner than when last they met, but the twinkle of basic good humor never far behind. Tagging along was Gus Beidemann, who resembled a Panzer more than he did a man; a rumbling, square-jawed, square-bodied devil who could gulp Russian vodka faster than a distillery could produce it and still load and fire twice as fast as any man in the regiment. He slapped a gentle paw against Langer's back, nearly knocking him down.
"Well, you dumb son of a bitch, what the hell are you doing back here? Didn't you have enough sense to run off to Sweden while you were in school? Christ, I thought we taught you better than that. But no matter, you're back and we love you, you delicate little flower."
Pohlman was next, the ever-present square-bowed pipe stuck firmly between his teeth. Pleased, Langer hugged him. "Hello, Teacher. Have you taken care of these devils properly?"
Pohlman smiled gently and spoke in the manner of a school teacher, which was precisely what he had been in Cologne. The gentleness of his attitude had nothing to do with the effectiveness he had shown in combat, whether with tanks or the wood-handled, short-bladed close-combat knife stuck in his boot top.
Taking his pipe out, he spat a loose piece of tobacco on the ground and tapped the bowl of the pipe against the sole of his boot.
"No, Carl, I am afraid there is no hope for these cretinous fecal encephalos."
"What the hell's a fecal wachmacallit, you over-educated molester of schoolchildren?"
"A fecal encephalo means shit brain, shit brain."
Beidemann grinned. "That's okay then. For a second, I thought he was insulting us."
Carl looked at the youngster standing behind Pohlman, a nice young man like one of those posters for the Hitler Jugend, blond-haired, blue-eyed, with a face that would make angels weep for envy. If he lived, he would give the girls their fair share of heartbreaks; if he lived or went home in one piece, neither of which was very likely.
"Who's this. Teacher?"
"Our new pup. He's our new hull gunner and radio operator. Felix bought it."
Another gone. Nothing else could be said—or was. "Ich hat eine Kamaraden."
Langer shook his head in the negative. "No, Teacher. I want Stefan on the radio. He'll work as the loader until he's broken in. Looks like he has good hands on him and at his age, he's probably quick and that's important."
"Come here, boy. Your name?"
"Manfried Ertl, Herr Feldwebel." He did everything but click heels.
"All right, Manny. You're one of us now and how much you pay attention and how quick you learn will determine how long you live. While you're with us, you will be one of us and this piece of tin will be your home. Take care of it. The Feldwebel crap you can forget. Just do as you are told and do it quickly."
Simultaneously, a thousand heads cocked themselves to the east listening. "Jabos! Hit the dirt!"
Like magic, men sought every piece of low ground and cover they could find. Carl grabbed the boy's arm and jerked him away from the tank, screaming, "Get away from the tank. It's the first thing they go for." Throwing the boy behind some brush, he buried his face in the dry dust.
Gorges of earth erupted, followed by brain-rupturing explosions. Soviet fighter bombers had spotted the tanks below and were determined not to let them get into action. One after another, they burst in oily blasts of flame as fuel tanks were hit. Counterfire came from a Luftwaffe Ack-ack unit using quad-mounted MG-42 light machine guns that could fire 2,400 rounds a minute each, pouring a stream of death into the dodging and darting Ilyuhsins with the red stars and smiling pilots who sensed an easy kill on the tanks below. The sitting Panthers were defenseless against the attack. A leg in a camouflaged trouser landed next to Langer's face, the foot still moving from side to side at the ankle. It didn't know it was dead yet.
Screams mingled with the staccato machine-gun fire and roaring thumps of blasting bombs, accented by the heavier Pom Pom of 20 mm5s getting into action. Gus ran dodging and twisting, throwing himself to the side of Langer, his steel pot giving him the look of an oversized Russian beetle. "Welcome home. I hope you appreciate how much trouble we went to, to have this display of fireworks for you." Spitting out a mouthful of red dust, he absently eyed the detached leg. "Wonder what size boot that is. I got a hole big enough to stuff a field marshal through in mine." Taking the foot, he looked at the boot, puckered his mouth and then tossed it and the leg farther away. "Wrong foot."
CHAPTER TWO
The Soviets finished their bombing-and-strafing runs, red stars and white trim clearly visible in the clear air. Their flight leader gave one lazy victory roll over the burning tanks below and followed his squadron, content to have sent a proper Russian welcome to the Nazis below. Such was his self-con-tent that he never noticed the dark specks diving on him from twenty thousand feet. His first indication of something wrong came when his instrument panel was blown up by a burst from the 30mm cannon in the nose of the Gustav (Messerschmitt fighter), leading the swarm of four ME-109s now pouncing on the Shtormoviks that had done such slaughter below on their comrades.
Captain Ilye Popel, winner of the Order of Suvaron II class, screamed as the interior of his cockpit filled with flames, licking at his face, burning his hands into black charred stubs as he tried to control the wild earthward spin of his plane. His screams stopped when he was forced to take another breath in order to continue. Instead of air, his lungs filled with smoke and fire; mercifully he was dead four seconds before his aircraft disintegrated into a cloud of smoke and fire as it plowed into the field of ripening sugar beets below. Three others of his group shared his fate before the next ten seconds passed. The tankers and Panzergrenadiers below cheered as the Luftwaffe at least paid off a few of the bastards.
Langer pulled himself up from the sheltering earth and kicked Gus in the ass with the boot toe.
"All right, hero, get up and let's see what damages have been done."
Calling for Teacher and the others to join them, they checked their Panther. Luckily, only a near miss had gone off by them and there was no major damage, only a couple of bogie wheels that would have to be replaced and, a section of tread. The rest of the day was spent burying the dead and gathering up the separate parts of those who had been blown into bits and burying all the pieces together. They had long since stopped trying to match parts up with the proper owners. . . .
It was 1 July. With nightfall, Langer, Gus and the others settled down into the comfortable bunker they had appropriated from the previous occupants, who were now some ten miles distant, and began their interminable game of cards with Gus cheating as usual, but doing it so badly he usually lost anyway, so the others never let on they knew what he was doing. At ten hundred hours, Langer told them it was time to call it quits. They would have to work their asses off the next few days to get the tank in shape and familiarize themselves with it. Their previous mode of transportation, the old reliable Mark IV, had long since gone to that great scrap heap in the sky. Surely there was a Nordic Valhalla for all the good German tanks that died for the Reich and the Führer. Langer took the first watch even though they were well behind the front. Too many times units had been caught with their pants down when Ivan would make one of the unexpected lunges and a group of T-34s would come raging on them in the dark. At close quarte
rs, the 76 mms they mounted could even take out one of the new Tigers that Doctor Porsche, their inventor, was so proud of.
Propping himself on the commander's seat, Langer leaned half out of the hatch and checked the MG-34, which he had scrounged earlier and mounted. Dragging deep on the cigaret butt he held cupped in his hands, Langer studied the moonlit countryside, now so quiet, broken only by the sounds of a man snoring or sentry cursing quietly as he stumbled in the dark.
"Soon." The feeling was there and Langer had learned to believe his intuitions. This would be a big one; all the earmarks were there.
The long lines of infantry men moving up into positions to their left, trains by the hundreds bringing in the new tanks, and replacement stockpiles of munitions and supplies being built up in the rear. Reaching into the pocket of his camouflaged jacket, he took out a small bottle of white tablets, shook two out and popped them. . . . Benzedrine. One of the marvels of modern pharmaceutical developments. Soon, soon. They would be back in it. Ivan had gotten a lot smarter in the last year and a lot tougher. One thing was certain, hell waited out there in the dark.
The sleeping forms of his crew were only blacker masses in the darkness. Each had found a spot that suited him and curled up for the night wrapped in blankets like cocoons, the soft sounds of their shifting in their sleep were familiar; each had his own sounds. Teacher breathed through his mouth with small rasping gurgling noises and Gus, the walking bear, mumbled constantly in his dreams about booze, money or cunt. They were spaced out around their tank far enough from each other that if a lucky round from a Russian gun fell on them, they wouldn't all be taken out. Practical, professional men, they knew their business—which was death— the giving and the taking.
To the rear, working by the light of an oil lamp, Field Marshal Eric von Manstein poured over his charts and reports. Was anything omitted? Had all precautions been taken? His aristocratic face was a study in the best of the Prussian aristocracy.
It was all there, on the maps—pencil marks and lines that would spell victory or disaster. This was the trump card. Here they must win. All the reserves that Germany could scrounge were being thrown in. There was little left in the Fatherland to draw upon and what he had now, though the numbers were right, was not so good as the material he started out with on Operation Barbarossa two years ago.
They crossed the Russian frontier and raced to the gates of Moscow. Would it be enough? 900,000 men, 10,000 pieces of artillery and heavy mortars, 3,700 tanks and assault guns along with the Luftwaffe's contribution of 2,500 aircraft. This was it. In his heart he knew that if they failed here, the war could well be lost. There was no way to replace the men and materials. Italy had been stripped even though the Allied invasion of Sicily was imminent. He mused over what the British and Americans would run into if they had to face his army on the beaches along with the defenses that were already there. . . .
One hundred miles away. Marshal Zhukov was covering the same ground with General Rokossovsky, commander of Army Central. . . . Comrade Ivanov (Stalin) ordered there must be no failure.
"We have committed everything to this battle. We are thankful the Fascist pigs do not know our man in Switzerland who has kept us so well informed on their Operation Citadel. For months now, we have made every effort to prepare the greatest trap in the history of warfare. It will make Stalingrad look like child's play."
Pointing to the charts on the field table, Zhukov, with his peasant's face so much in contrast to the fine features of his German counterpart, ordered Rokossovsky to go over his preparations—1,337,000 men, 20,000 pieces of artillery, rocket launchers and heavy mortars, 3,306 tanks and assault guns, 2,650 aircraft.
On the central front alone they had 5,100 mines per mile of front already laid and every day there would be more. Three thousand miles of trenches and antitank ditches were dug, their defenses were in six belts, one behind the other. Each would become successively stronger if the belt in front was forced to withdraw. They would then add their strength to the belt behind them and so forth until they bled the enemy dry. Zhukov gave one of his rare smiles, showing strong yellow teeth.
"It is enough. July 5—they will come and we are ready."
Teacher shook the others awake. Grumbling, they rolled out of their blankets, each in his own manner. Some had to take a leak, others needed a smoke to wake up. Langer sent Gus over to the mobile kitchen to get their morning rations. He had a knack for scrounging that was second to none, especially when he scared the shit out of the cooks by playing with a live grenade while he waited in a line that rapidly diminished when they saw him take the pin out and then reinsert it again and again, almost dropping the damned thing more than once. Gus did indeed have a way about him. For fun, he would set a concussion grenade on top of his steel helmet and stand there while it exploded. Knowing, as the old timers did, that explosives follow the line of least resistance and ninety-eight percent of the blast effect went straight up from the steel helmet, the worst he got was a ringing in the ears.
The next three days were spent in frantic preparations. Through intermittent rains, they familiarized themselves with their new home on tracks and its idiosyncrasies, painting the tank an off yellow and green camouflage pattern that would blend in well with the surrounding countryside. Extra tracks were placed on the turret sides and the ammo holders filled to capacity with extra 75 mms stacked by the driver along with their personal weapons, ready in case they had to unass the Panther in a hurry.
The steel leviathan weighed in at forty-five and one-half tons with a range of 110 road miles or half that cross country. It carried a long 75 with 79 rounds of ammo and 4,500 rounds of machine-gun ammo for the two MG-34s. Gus fell in love with the engine, a Maybach HL 230 twelve-cylinder diesel with 700 hp.
"This fucker's a beauty!" he cried out joyfully, slapping the side of the tank.
"At last we have something we can chew those damned T-34s up with. This little toy could take Moscow all by itself."
The night of the fourth they moved to their jump-off positions while a flight of Ju-88s and ME-109s buzzed the front in order to cover the track and engine noises. Quickly they camouflaged their tanks with brush and netting, waiting for the dawn while their officers received their battle orders and made last-minute changes. Midnight passed. It was 5 July, and the nearest thing to Armageddon the world had ever known was about to be born. . . .
First light broke hot and clear, a portent of the hell to come. The Soviet 17th Air Army was already crossing the lines separating the protagonists, heading to make a preemptive strike on the German air bases to the rear and destroy the bulk of the Luftwaffe aircraft while still on the ground, but the gods of war smiled on the Germans and one in particular screwed up the Russian plan.
FREYA, the name for the radar units stationed at the German airfields, picked up the incoming Soviets in time to alert their fighters. From General Siedeman's headquarters, the order went out to forget the planned scheduling and take off immediately. Scramble now and get everything that could fly in the air and off the vulnerable fields. Fighter engines screamed, their special whines like German eagles, airborne, climbing high to get above the confident Soviet squadrons who thought they were approaching sleeping bases. The Russian bombers were flying at 10,000 feet as the first wave of German fighters fell on them like hunting falcons from the heights, striking through the formations and breaking them up in panic, sending plane after plane crashing in flames to the earth. The MIG and Yak fighters did their best to protect their lumbering bigger brothers, but the altitude of the bombers left them at a disadvantage in dealing with the Fw-190s and ME-109s that raced around them, blasting them from the sky. In the first hour, the Soviets lost 120 aircraft and their even more precious crews as hundreds of German fighters hurled themselves with reckless abandon at everything that wore a red star. Before the day was over, another 300 would be added to the tally of Soviet losses, first blood to the Iron Cross.
Freya, the Nordic goddess of love and beau
ty, who also claimed half of those who fell on the field of battle for her own, served her people well this day.
The battle of Kursk was on; from all fronts came the order to attack. As volleys of artillery and mortar fire laid down barrages that made the earth erupt, trying to blast open a path for the armored beasts to race through.
CHAPTER THREE
Into the maelstrom of smoke, dust and flames, the tanks rumbled, engines straining, following the lines prepared by the engineers that night when they crept in to clear paths through the mine fields. The monstrous symphony of modern warfare had begun with an overture to death.
Gus laughed as he gunned the engine and ground a slit trench full of Russians into pulp. Locking one tread, the Panther pivoted, grinding the men beneath the threads into the dirt. A Tiger tank to the left exploded in a gout of black oily smoke as it hit an antitank mine. The sappers had missed this one. The crew bailed out of the hatches, only to be cut down by machine-gun fire, the Panzer grenadiers following in their wake, spread out, several falling to their faces as Ivan fought back with the tenacity of the Russian bear.
