Rise of the Bloodied Phoenix

by Andrew McGregor

The sergeant was screaming orders as the last Kubelwagen slid to halt, the mounted machine gun on the lorry cab roof in front peppering the trees as flashes swept into the darkness. Pushing the captain, the senior sergeant slid from the car as the driver dropped into the snow raising his rifle, the man behind dropping to one knee and aiming his MP40 across the bonnet.

  The captain fell forwards into the iced snow, his MP40 barking as he fired upwards into the trees, soldiers jumping from the trucks ahead with their rifles as the lead Kubelwagen exploded, a grenade tossed from the makeshift barricade detonating amongst the wounded passengers.

  Rifle cracks filled the air, the defenders returning fire as flashes in the trees sent bullets towards the small convoy, the projectiles cracking against the vehicle sides as the machine gunner ducked, two riflemen twisting and falling. Then the second machine gun opened fire, the young teenage Ukrainian policeman gritting his teeth as the bullets ricocheted around his position, his body and head ducked below the mounting.

  Further explosions on the track as grenades were tossed, the partisans slipping back into the darkened forest as engines in the local hamlet roared into life, the garrisoned troops running from their billets into the freezing cold as their officer shouted frantic commands.

  Slowly the rifle shots died away, the soldiers rising apprehensively, a couple ducking down to check on their wounded countrymen. The young captain rose confidently, dropping his spent magazine into the snow and attaching a fresh one, his voice raised as the machine gunners fired small burst into the darkened trees, ‘Achtung! After them!’

  The senior sergeant grimaced in annoyance, seeing the soldiers hesitate, their expressions becoming fearful, ‘Herr Hauptmann…that is what they will want us to do…they will cut us all down, we have less than twelve men! The local security force will sweep the forest tomorrow morning…’ The machine gun fire died away, the two gunners clamping fresh magazines to the top of their weapons.

  The young captain shook his head, ‘We have lost men…we chase down the enemy…’ He turned to the surviving seven infantrymen, the whine of engines approaching as he adjusted his officer’s cap in determination, straightening his jacket, ‘That was an order…after them! Into the trees! I want…’

  The muffled rifle shot rang out from one hundred and fifty metres inside the forest, a slight flash in the darkness as the projectile swept forward towards its target. The captain staggering as the bullet cracked through his ribcage and heart, his body dropping into the snow as the other soldiers ducked down fearfully.

  Leant against a tree, the man in his thirties turned swiftly away, his cloth covered boots making hardly any sound as he scrambled back deeper into the forest, his scoped rifle sweeping over his shoulder as he dropped into a depression between two trees, a silhouette waiting for him and gesturing impatiently, ‘Did you get him?’

  The figure nodded, cloth covering his face and padded cap as he slapped the young man on the shoulder, ‘Yes, young Pavel…the fascist officer was dead before his body hit the snow.’ They turned, grinning in satisfaction and stepping deeper into the forest as the sniper spoke softly again, ‘Let us go and have something to eat…see how young Oleg is recovering? Tomorrow the enemy will sweep the forest…and find nothing again…’

  Act II: Bloody Kharkov II

  By Andrew McGregor

  Bloodied Wehrmacht Series

  Book 5

  Chapter Twenty Four: Early February 1943

  The Maybach Panzer IIIL engine roared into life, heavy broken snow clouds drifting overhead in the early morning light as a freezing breeze swept across the bleak and barren landscape. Two hamlets lay ahead, the wide deep snow fields leading to them bordered with ramshackle fences and hedges, several copses of white laden trees and low frozen bushes breaking the wide expanse before the land rose up to a distant tree line. Lowering his binoculars, the black uniformed commander smiled down through his turret to the crew below, his lips parting with gritted determined teeth behind, his hand gripping the radio microphone around his scarfed neck resolutely, ‘Panzers Marshe!’

  The driver grinned, his adrenalin rising almost intoxicatingly as the medium tank lurched forward, tracks spinning and snow billowing behind, the commander gripping the cupola instinctively to steady himself, a gloved hand rising and waving round his head before pointing abruptly forward. The fingers then fell briefly to the iron cross around his neck, a short personal whisper before the machine roared across the snow, lumbering out of the copse of trees, the Russian makeshift defensive line only six hundred metres ahead.

  Tank commanders to either side grinned with enthusiasm, jerks of adrenalin surging up their spines as they lowered into their turrets. Hatches clanked shut above them as the tracks jerked backwards, plumes of exhaust smoke rising into the freezing early morning air as the white speckled painted steel monsters rolled forward, spreading out across the snow bound terrain.

  SS-Stabsscharführer Hans Scharf glanced through the viewing slit, shaking his head in enthusiasm as he glimpsed the lead Panzer accelerate from the bushes and trees, the shrill cracking of branches outside, his voice rising to an excited shout over the engine noise to his crew, ‘SS-Untersturmführer Wittman is on a mission this morning…the Russkies are going to pay!’

  The clank of a high explosive shell into the breach of the 50mm main gun drowned out the end of his sentence, the gunner shrugging as Hans lowered his eyes to the slit once more, glimpsing the lead tank shudder, a belch of fire and plume of smoke billowing from the muzzle.

  The shell swept forward, glowing in the freezing cold air, Hans’s exhaled breath forming in a cloud as he frantically lifted himself to stare through the observation sights, the snow sweeping upwards in the distance, a flash of flame and black smoke. ‘Hit!’ He shouted gleefully, raising his hands, ‘Target next position…take them out!’

  The flash in the distance caused him to grimace, thrusting himself back in his seat in natural reaction, the glowing anti-tank shell zipping narrowly passed the turret, a whoosh of air outside, ‘Target muzzle flash! They are firing at us…hit them first!’ His tone rose in desperation, ‘Hit them now!’

  The electrical turret mechanism whirred as it turned, the gunner grinning with adrenalin as he shouted back, his eyes on the targeting sights, ‘Russian reload…twenty seconds…they will be dead in fifteen!’

  The commander screamed as he glimpsed the glint of a helmeted head with lowering binoculars rise over the snow covered anti-tank gun shield in the distance, the Panzer III tank accelerating to maximum speed as alarm filled his voice, ‘Fire when ready! This crew are quicker…take them!’

  Tracer bullets streamed towards the advancing Panzers, the almost glittering projectiles shooting past or clanking against the front armour as the tanks roared on, long barrelled Panzer IV G’s surging across the ditches to either side from the rear of the trees, their commanders’ shouting desperately for the drivers to keep up with the advancing lower gunned Panzer IIIs. Behind them, the roar of engines resounded across the snowed walls of a shallow ravine, SdKfz 251 Hanomags bouncing from the depression with their accompanying Kubelwagen jeeps, the crews and accompanying infantry gritting their teeth and grasping their helmets as the armoured carriers surged forward, jolting and tracks squealing across the uneven snow.

  The Panzer IIIL bucked, a flash from the 50mm main gun as the high explosive shell swept towards its target, Hans Scharf pushing his brow to the observation sight, blinking as the bright light swept onto his pupils, the explosion in the distance throwing smoke and debris into the air, his lips pursed in cold determination, ‘Miss! Weave!’ The tank lurched to the right, the flash in the distance accompanied by another from a small hamlet to the left, the Russian flanking infantry of 1st Guards Army having heavily dug in upon hearing rumours and brief radio messages of an impending German advance.

  The tank rocked as the explosion ripped the earth next to it, the frantic Russian gunners lowering the angle of the guns as the Panzers roamed towards
them, thick smoke beginning to conceal their advance. The clank of another shell into the breach, the gunner flushing crimson with embarrassed disgust, his eyes moving rapidly back to the sight as he swore under his breath, the shrill cracking of machine gun bullets against the hull as the advancing Panzer forward machine guns opened fire. Tracers whipping forward in a blaze of gunfire, smoke shells popping against the snowed terrain ahead.

  Clanks of small arms fire, the cracks of heavy machine gun bullets and the dull metallic thuds, two light anti-tank rifles opening fire from the copse of trees as the Panzers roared forward, nervous sweat beginning to slide down the drivers’ foreheads as the camouflaged mottled metal hulls swept into and through the billowing shroud.

  The Panzer behind belched dense oil plumes, the hull jolting violently with the muffled explosion, two of the crew swearing as their heads jarred against the inside hull and optics. As the engine died, the shell having bounced underneath the hull, the tracks screeched and tore against the wheels, metal sections cracking and wrapping over spinning steel rims. The crew frantically lunged and pushed towards front and side escape hatches as acrid black smoke rapidly filled the interior, rasping coughs and retching filling the enclosed space as they fumbled to escape. The jarred wincing driver grasped the front machine gunner’s shoulder, drawing a panicked deep breath as the young crewman slumped back, blood soaking the front of his black uniformed tunic, the crimson liquid dribbling from his mouth as he stared in shock down towards severed lowered legs, smouldering blistered torn floor metal and pedals beneath.

  Gritting his teeth, the driver grasped his long term friend, dragging the grimacing man sideways as he screamed in pain, light from the open side hatch struggling against the black smoke, the distinct alarming stench of burning fuel beginning to fill their nostrils.

  Burnt and oil smeared hands gripped the wounded man’s frame from outside, coughing filling the air as he screamed in pain and shock once more, his body ripped brutally through the open side hatch, flames beginning to greedily lick around the rear of the turret, the paint blistering and melting.

  The driver thrust after him, desperate to escape the entombing darkness, his breath held as the acrid smoke engulfed him, blackness spilling abruptly into bright light as his body was wrenched free by a rough grip, his eyes closing as he slipped from the side of the Panzer, dropping roughly into the freezing snow. Further hands grabbed his smouldering uniformed shoulders, dragging him across the cold embracing whiteness, his eyes straining as he glimpsed the flames beginning to roar around the angled steel turret, black smoke billowing upwards. Blood trails across the white expanse were beside him, the screams of panic and realisation distinct behind in the voice of his friend, a young man he had trained long and hard with, the twenty-two-year old’s ability to walk freely removed in a heartbeat.

  Cracks of shattering ammunition followed, his eyes widening as he stared back at the flame engulfed turret, acrid smoke pouring upwards as the crew struggled away, glimpsing the relieved ashen faces of forward machine gunners on the passing Hanomags, snow flurries churning upwards in their wakes, dispersing smoke billowing across the angled hulls.

  Hans Scharf’s eyes opened in horror, glimpsing a low steel helmet ahead, a Russian soldier ducking back into the single deep foxhole, the Russian’s hands trembling as he armed the German Teller mine, with the terrifying roar of Panzer engines and squealing tracks approaching. Bullets clanked against the tank hull, Hans sweeping round and shouting menacingly into his throat microphone, ‘Infantry in foxholes, accelerate…cut them down when they rise!’ The instant radio reply from the Hanomags was garbled, a brief pause before frontal machine gunners frantically lowered their MG34s and sprayed the ground ahead, the snow thrown upwards from numerous impacts.

  The turret shuddered as the main gun fired, dense smoke pouring through the viewing slits as Hans blinked, momentarily blinded, the engine screaming as the Panzer reached maximum speed. Jolting from side to side, he glimpsed a plume of flame shoot upwards in the distance, the turret 50mm gun scoring a direct hit, debris and broken bodies twisting in the air, then falling back to earth. The gunner swore aloud triumphantly at his victory, the clank of another high explosive shell into the breech following as he hunched over the gun sights.

  Six of the Russians in foxholes ahead clambered urgently upwards, a shell zipping past as they ran forwards, machine gun fire from the tanks and Hanomags tearing though their bodies as they jerked violently, the Teller mines and Molotov cocktails falling into the snow as the bodies crumpled. Others stayed deep in the single foxholes, eyes clenched and bodies shaking in terror as the whining of tracks drew nearer, the roaring Maybach engines almost upon them.

  Bullets and tracers poured from the small tree groupings on either side, the flashes from deep within the dark undergrowth as the Russians pressed themselves into the freezing snow, the Hanomag forward machine gunners ducking down from their exposed positions as the cracks of ammunition off the armoured sides became deafening. The white padded uniformed SS infantry grenadiers shuddered nervously in the rear compartments, the bullets clanking off the exterior armoured plate just inches from their bodies as they clutched their bayoneted rifles and MP40s tightly.

  The electrical motors of the steel turrets on the flanking Panzer IVs whirred, the 75mm long barrels turning ominously towards the trees as Hans stared in disbelief at the hamlet ahead, grey-blue diesel exhaust fumes billowing upwards from the outskirts of the low one storey wooden buildings as the dark sloped hulls emerged, his desperate shout into the microphone chilling the other tanks commanders, ‘Aerial reconnaissance was wrong! Ivan tanks…T34s to either side of shacks! Reload…armoured piercing!’ He spun round, knowing the 50mm gun was inadequate against the Russian tank forward plate, screaming at his gunner and loader, ‘Aim for the tracks…let the Panzer IVs engage them!’ His eyes lowered to the driver and forward machine gunner in desperation, ‘Keep the Russkies in the trenches down…they get out and amongst us…we are finished!’

  The first dark hulls emerged from the sides of the hamlet, silhouetted against the gradual white slope behind, the Panzer III hulls bucking as the guns belched flame, smoke billowing through the observation slits, more single flashes from the tree line on the horizon, concealed Russian pak guns opening fire.

  Explosions erupted near the emerging Russian tanks, two flashes against the steel plate as high explosive shells detonated against the armour, crews bucking and shuddering inside, two screaming in agonising pain with perforated eardrums, the commanders desperately attempting to turn their turrets manually as they shouted to the drivers below.

  The side tracks spun, the T34 tanks with 76mm and 85mm main guns churning round on the snow, the barrels rounding towards the slowing Panzers as the German forward machine guns raked the ground, explosions throwing frozen dirt and snow into the air. Another Panzer III erupted in an acrid shroud, the high velocity pak shell ripping and screeching through armoured plate as the tank shuddered and lumbered to a halt, flame and smoke billowing from the turret mountings as agonising screams filled the interior, the mortally wounded crew struggling in dense smoke with seared lungs and shattered senses.

  A low muffled determined ‘Hurrah’ filled the near terrain, the remaining Russians struggling from their foxholes to attack the now almost stationery armoured Panzers, their gunners staring frantically into targeting sights as the clanks of breeches resounded through the turrets.

  Hans grasped the interior turret mounted machine gun, bullets pouring blindly into the white terrain ahead, his eyes narrowing through the targeting slit as the numerous grey padded figures ahead lumbered towards the Panzers through deep snow, each laden down with a heavy mine. The MG34 machine guns tore through the advancing infantry, bodies shaking and slumping downwards as they were hit multiple times, explosions from the distant shells tossing body parts and frozen earth fragments into the air as the Panzer tracks squealed, the radio burbling as SS-Untersturmführer Wittman’s familiar voice tore
through the static and clattering of bullets, ‘Forward!’

  The muzzles of the six Russian tanks ahead flashed, glowing shells sweeping across the white terrain, a Panzer III jolting and slumping sideways, flames pouring from the side as pitiful terrified screams filled the interior, the fuel igniting and consuming the armoured vehicles interior in a flash and searing blaze of intensity.

  Dirt and debris slammed against the metal plate as the other tanks surged forward, the Panzer IVs returning fire on the T34 Russian tanks, their 75mm guns capable of destroying the enemy machines. Two distant Russian machines burst into flames, the surviving crew members scrambling from the opening hatches, a number burning as their machines roared in flames, their hulls perforated, one furnished with a small raised red triangular flag.

  The T34s roared forward, moving out to the sides as the German machines advanced, flashes from the raised tree line and side trees as bullets raked their hulls, the explosions searing the snow black and tossing earth skywards. The Hanomags swept outwards between the ‘V’ formation of tanks, tearing towards the copses on either side, the frontal machine gunners forcing their reluctant bodies upwards behind the protective shields, the bolts cracking back on the MG34s as bullets poured forward, screams of panic from the darkened bushes as the steel armoured vehicles charged towards their prey.

  Hans Scharf’s shouts were virtually inaudible, ‘Target tree line…high explosive shells…suppress the Ivan gunners! Skirt the villages…the advance goes on!’ He lowered his eyes, staring through the narrow viewing slit, his head shaking as he glimpsed the lead Panzer III, the flash from its forward gun and the subsequent explosion in the distance. A low house billowed smoke, shattered planks and roofing blown skywards, the pak gun before it exploding into fragments, the tossed crew broken and killed.

  The deafening roar swept over the tanks and open topped Hanomags from above, engines screaming as five low flying mottled camouflaged Messerschmitt ME109s swept across the terrain, their forward machine guns blazing. Flames erupted from the hamlets ahead, wood splintering as high powered cannon shells swept through the structures, several disintegrating under the ferocity, the occupants torn to shreds.