Panzer Soldier c-4

by Barry Sadler

  The minutes crawled. Sweat ran down his back, sticking to his jacket and skin. His armpits felt raw where dried sweat and salt had collected in the hairs, rubbing him raw. Finally, a small dark form wiggled back into the hole silently. Reluctantly he handed the watch back to Langer.

  "They come, maybe twenty moujiks, peasants. They have a green cross with them. He wants prisoner for question, threaten them with Piljudji, prison. They no get." Yuri spat a gob of phlegm on the ground. "NKVD sabaka dog."

  Calling the others to him, Langer told them to keep quiet and let Ivan get closer, then use knives and entrenching tools first and not to fire unless things became too hairy and they couldn't handle them. The night grated on their ears as they strained for any sound that meant the Ivans were getting near, each man with his favorite weapon for close fighting. Teacher strapped his bayonet to the side of his boot. Putting a finer edge to the blade, Stefan preferred an entrenching tool, the short shovel with the edges sharpened. Yuri played with his butcher knife while Langer picked up an abandoned rifle and fixed his bayonet to it. Manny did the same, following Langer's suggestion that he didn't have enough experience for anything shorter. They waited . . . each man to himself, with his own thoughts.

  Teacher mused on how often they got back to the basics of existence and struggle here. Surrounded by all the technology of modern warfare they now waited to beat the brains out of their enemy or gut him with bayonets and butcher knives. Progress marches on.

  Yuri hissed softly between his teeth and pointed out into the darkness. Following his finger, Langer could see shadows moving slowly, carefully feeling their way in the darkness between the grass and small brush that remained after the battle. One and then another. Yuri, he thought, that little shit has eyes sharper than a jungle cat. Tapping Teacher, he told him to pass the word to get ready.

  They hunched lower in the shell hole, only eyes showing above the lip. The first Russian gingerly crept to the edge of the shell hole. Thinking it vacant, he started to crawl in and was helped along with a hand from Langer as his throat was locked in a vise grip. Carl dragged him down to the bottom and squeezed, feeling the cartilage crumble beneath his fingers. There could be no noise. Yuri patted him approvingly on the shoulder when he rose from the Russian's body and went back to the side of the shell hole and regained his rifle and bayonet. Another crept close to Stefan, only to have his head caved in with a blow from the sharpened edge of his shovel. The Russian died, not hearing his last breath, but his comrades immediately behind him heard the sucking sound of the shovel being pulled from his skull. They froze.

  The NKVD with the green cross on his soft cap moved up to them. Hearing what happened he reminded them to take prisoners. On his command they were to throw themselves in the hole with the Fascists and wipe them out, except for one, who he would question later. He relished the idea of the screams he would induce when he hammered a brass cartridge into the kneecap of the prisoner. That never failed to elicit a proper response when he asked his questions.

  Creeping from one man to another, he made his way down line. When he stood, they were to rush. No shooting. Knives and bayonets only in the hole. There couldn't be too many in a hole that size. Gathering himself, he took a deep breath and then rose to a half stand. His men immediately lunged for the hole. The first one in died with his throat torn open by Yuri's butcher knife, but the others made it in. Langer thrust with the bayonetted rifle like a spear, catching the first one in the stomach and then twisting the blade to tear it free and striking another in the face, crushing the jaw. A bayonet on a Moisin Nagant slid along his rib cage. Burning, he twisted and kicked his attacker in the balls, slashing across his throat as he did. The shell hole was a confused million, grunting, groaning mass of men who stabbed and beat at each other in the dark. Not a word was spoken. They fought and died silently except for the sounds that blades and rifle butts made when they sank into an abdomen or smashed open a skull. The NKVD man threw himself on a German's back and sank his knife deep into him, twisting the blade and moving it from side to side. He felt a sexual thrill as the German's death shudder was transmitted to him from the steel. Turning to take out another one, he lunged at a stocky figure only to have his thrust blocked. A distant flare lit up the hole enough for him to get a quick look at the German, a sergeant with a thin scar on one side of his face running down to the cheek. He lunged again, this time only to feel his hand locked in a grip which bent it back over his wrist. The bones in his wrist cracked as he was thrown to the ground. The last thing he saw was the shadow of the German's boot coming down as Langer kicked his head into a pulp.

  The surviving Russians dropped their weapons and began to run back to where they had come from. In the heat of the battle no one had noticed the rumbling clanking that was coming closer to them.

  A tank . . .

  Teacher swore, "Ah, now we're in for it. Those bastards are going to grind us under. We better get our asses out of here."

  The surviving Russians ran to meet the approaching monster only to freeze in terror when it turned and ground three of them under the treads. A gurgling laugh came to Langer's group in the hole. Gus in a Tiger was joyfully chasing the Russians across the field. Only two got away by playing dead, one had his arm flattened out as fifty-six tons of the Tiger ran over it. There was no pain, the sheer weight of the tank pinched all the nerves in the arm.

  Gus locked his left tread and headed for the hole, where he wheeled the monster around and leapt from the driver's hatch. Grinning hugely he waddled over to the hole. "What are you doing down there? Come up and see what Uncle Gus has brought you."

  Teacher told him to shut up. He was pulling Stefan out from under a pile of Russian bodies. Gus did just that. Getting into the hole, he took Stefan from him and told the others that he would take care of him. For the first time since Langer had known Gus, he had nothing wise or smart ass to say. Taking a shelter half, he wrapped the body in it and carried it off in his arms like a baby. Carl wasn't sure, but thought he heard him crying. No, not Gus. He wouldn't do that.

  With the dawn, Gus returned. He had carried Stefan seven miles to the rear to the graves registration company in charge of casualties for this sector. After turning Stefan's paybook and ID tags over to them, he had insisted on burying him by himself. He wanted to make sure the job was done right. When he returned, there was no sign that anything had ever happened. He thumped down in the hole and began to wolf down his iron rations, eating as if that was the only thing of importance in the world.

  Langer walked around the Tiger noting the deathshead insignia of the Totenkopf Division on the rear and front glacis. Joining Gus, he said.

  "Where the hell did you get it?"

  Gus, his mouth full, gulped and swallowed, his Adam's apple doing filthy things to his throat. "Well, you said the captain said we should get our own tank. I went and got one and it's a beauty, fully gassed and loaded."

  Langer shook his head. "But how?"

  Gus smiled a crooked, self-pleased grin. "I knew that bunch of Hitler's cowboys were not too far away, so I paid them a friendly visit to promote brotherly feelings between the SS and the Wehrmacht and to demonstrate my affection for the baby butchers. I took two bottles of vodka with me, but it seems somehow that the mineral oil I use on my hair got into the bottles and the mixture upset the dear boys' stomachs and while they were shitting their guts out, I merely got in and drove off. By the way, I would recommend you find some paint and do some redecorating on it before they come around. They ought to be getting better about now."

  Langer climbed into the commander's seat. "Let's move out and find some paint for this mobile pillbox before we have company."

  Yuri was now a full-fledged member of the crew and took over the loaders job and Manny moved over to the hull gun and radio.

  Gus started up the engine and they headed over to where Captain Heidemann was raising hell with the supply officer about his allotment of petrol and munitions. When the Tiger stopped in front o
f him, Langer jumped down. The captain stood for a moment stuttering and then, "Where the hell did you get that? No, I don't want to know. Tell me nothing."

  Gus stuck his head up through the hatch and winked at Heidemann. Heidemann turned his back. "I didn't see it. It was never here and one of these days, I'm going to have that insubordinate bandit driving for you shot. Now get it out of here and meet us back at Prokhorovka. We are going to regroup there and for God's sake, stay out of the way of the SS. If they see you in one of their tanks, they'll turn you over to the headhunters for target practice. Now go!"

  Langer left Heidemann mumbling to himself as they headed off across the field. Gus was happy as a child with a new train set as he played with his toy, all the time keeping Manny informed of the best way to cook a hog's head and keep the flavor in.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Stopping a kilometer outside Prokhorovka in an orchard, Langer was getting ready to send Gus in to get some paint so they could redo the camouflage and put on their battalion markings when Gus let out a yelp of joy. Walking in the open was one of the women's mortar crews.

  Spotting the Tiger facing them, they froze and slowly put up their hands. The woman commanding the crew was all that Gus had dreamed of, massive tits that bulged the front of her drab uniform to the bursting point and legs like tree stumps sitting in high leather boots. Gus rushed her crying out, "Ya Cheybya Loobloo Djavuschka, I love you girls."

  Sergeant Tina Yurenova caught the look in his eyes and took off, tank or no tank. She ran into the orchard dodging between trees, Gus racing after her giving off cries of passion concerning her Alik (sexual organs). "Don't run from Uncle Gus, my little pigeon." He caught her tunic with one square-fingered hand and she turned and slugged him square in the face, crossing his eyes.

  "She loves me," he cried and began tearing the clothes off her.

  Langer and the others merely stared in amazement. Teacher started to stop him but Carl said to leave him alone. "When he's in heat he just might turn his attention to you. Besides, I'm not sure if she can't whip him in a fair fight."

  Tina Yurenova defended herself and her honor from the assault of this human tank. She kicked, clawed and fought, trying to knee him in the balls, but all to no avail, and soon all that was left on her were her boots. Gus was on her, the two floundering in the trees and grass, resembling two pink pigmy dinosaurs. They grappled, grunting and squealing, Tina Yurenova threatening to feed Gus his balls when Russia won the war. She kicked and cursed. The bushes shook until Langer thought the roots were going to be torn up. Suddenly the screams and curses stopped and gurgles of pleasure began to emerge. He caught a quick glimpse of fleshy white thighs over black boots, heels drumming the ground. A feminine giggle seemed out of place coming from the mouth of this woman. Her giggles were punctuated by roars of laughter from Gus as he demonstrated the merits of the German helmet. Soon both were completely involved, oblivious to anything else. Twice Gus tried to get up, only to be dragged back into the bushes. After what seemed to be hours, the two emerged stark naked, holding hands like teenagers, Yurenova's head on Gus's shoulder. Looking up she saw the rest of the crew watching her and ran back into the bushes to dress. She tossed Gus his uniform. While he was getting his trousers back on, Gus told Langer she promised to get him a job in a tractor factory in Ryazhsk where her brother was a foreman if he would desert. "Do you think I should?"

  Teacher merely looked at him as if he were the personification of every base instinct known to mankind. "No," said Langer, "I don't think it's a love match that would endure. Now get your ass into town and find me some paint or I'll have your guts for suspenders." Gus looked back at his lady love. "Don't worry," Carl said. "We'll let them go. Now move it!"

  Gus complied unwillingly and trotted off down the road. As the women disappeared from sight, Teacher asked, "What do you think they'll do to her for collaborating with the enemy?"

  Langer chuckled. "They'll probably give her the Order of Lenin. I'm sure by now she's told the others she sacrificed her honor to save them from the same horrible fate and that she only pretended to enjoy it for their sakes."

  Teacher lit up his pipe, thought for a moment and then dismissed them from his mind with one statement. "You're probably right, but sometimes Gus worries me."

  Three hours later, Gus was back, riding a motorcycle with a side car and inside enough paint to do three tanks.

  "Where did you get the motorcycle?" Then, imitating Heidemann's response, "Never mind, I don't want to know. Just leave it in the trees."

  The rest of the day was spent turning their new Tiger I into a different tank, which was fortunate because shortly after they had finished and the paint barely dry, two SD headhunters came by in a Kubelwagen asking if they had seen a Tiger with Totenkopf markings on it go by lately, being driven by a maniac who said he was with the 7th Panzer Division. Gus had an angelic expression on his face as he told them he had seen one earlier and pointed to a distant ridge to the north. The headhunters thanked him and wheeled their vehicle around, bounced off and headed in the direction indicated.

  Langer stood confused for a moment and then turned to Teacher after checking his map. "Isn't that the ridge we bypassed yesterday where the Russian antitank guns were dug in?"

  The sound of the Kubelwagen exploding answered the question for him. Gus just smiled and said, "Well, are we going to hang around here all day? Let's get on into town. It's about suppertime and I spotted a field kitchen while there that bears looking into." The smoke from the burning Volkswagen jeep sent up one lonely black tendril behind them as their new home clanked on the dirt road to join the rest of their unit.

  In Prokhorovka, Heidemann said nothing as they rumbled in. As far as he was concerned, they were still riding a Panther. In the next few days, the front collapsed as divisions were moved out of the line for transfer to Italy. Gus moaned at the thought of others going to Rome. He was going to miss the food and the women. He cursed fate for leaving him behind.

  Every hour the Russian pressure became greater. The Germans fought a running battle as they withdrew, making Ivan pay for every step, but Ivan always seemed to have more men than they had bullets and by 15 July, they were in a defensive perimeter outside Kharkov. The city itself was burned out. Only a shell was left from the fighting that had taken place when the Germans captured it the last time.

  Teacher fell in love with the Tiger's 88 mm gun. It fired a twenty-two-pound shell at 2,657 feet per second, heavy enough and fast enough to cut the turret of a T-34 like butter. It was slower, but the increased armor gave them a feeling of security. They were positioned near a battery of 88 mm flak guns which could serve dual purpose as antitank. Between them they had accounted for fourteen enemy tanks in the last three days without getting a scratch on their paint, but Ivan was keeping the pressure on them, bringing up an ever increasing amount of artillery and "Stalin organs" firing those horrendous barrages night and day.

  General Voronezh massed two infantry armies, the 5th and 6th Guards, along with two tank armies packed into a front of no more than two miles, backed up with the support of 370 pieces of artillery per mile of front. The tanks had a depth of 100 to the mile. To the north, Koniev was to attack Belgorod and then move southwards and hit Kharkov and also keep army detachment Kempf from being able to lend any support to the defenders.

  The Germans were down to only 300,000 men in the pocket. The Soviets had them outmanned and out gunned and out tanked by at least three to one. Day after day, Langer's men faced wave after wave of Red soldiers throwing themselves into the fire of the German guns mindless of losses. They would come again and again and every day there were fewer familiar faces around them and no new ones to take their places. On 22 August, Field Marshal Manstein ordered the city evacuated counter to Hitler's orders. Langer and his crew withdrew through burning buildings and exploding supply dumps. The city was to be destroyed and nothing would be left behind for the Russians to use. The sounds of the explosions rumbled all that day a
nd night as the city died for the second time. Units leapfrogging each other kept the Russian bear at bay while they withdrew, destroying everything.

  There was little left of the city of Kharkov except a smoldering mass of rubble. The flames could be seen for fifty miles in any direction. Kharkov had been the third largest city in Russia. Behind them the retreating Germans did leave one thing— 133,000 men had been lost. Kharkov, the old-timers knew, was the beginning of the end.

  Langer's Tiger moved with the rest of a long line of hundreds of armored vehicles and trucks, passing horse-drawn wagons filled with supplies and the wounded. They moved back. Heidemann, his tank and the two others were all that remained. The strain was on every face, thin, drawn and exhausted. The weariness reached into the bones and men marched while asleep, stumbling caricatures of

  their former glory—ragged and tired they marched with the steps of men old before their time, trying to keep the blind fear of panic from their minds. They would stop at the Dnieper two hundred kilometers to the west. There they would stand and fight again on what was called the Wotan Line. Wotan, the ancient German god of war.

  Langer slept in his seat. The others curled up where they could. The outside of the tank was covered with infantrymen and the survivors of a Luftwaffe antiaircraft crew that had been overrun. Everyone was heading west, a line of men and machines one hundred kilometers long. The air force did its best to provide air cover and keep the Yaks, MIGs and Shtormoviks off them, but every day the burning hulks of tanks and trucks marked the way to the river. Several times they had to stop and fight a rear-guard action to keep Ivan from rolling them up. When at last they reached the crossing at Dniepropetrovsk and passed over the muddy waters, they collapsed and slept where they fell.