Rise of the Bloodied Phoenix

by Andrew McGregor

  The fighters swept up the slope beyond, trees shattering and splintered as the bullets poured through the darkened undergrowth, flames and black smoke erupting and billowing upwards with exploding ordinance. Russian gunners were thrown from their artillery pieces, the infantry forcing themselves down into the makeshift trench line as screams and the shrill cracking of bark and trunks filled the air, several lunging away from the defensive positions in panic as projectiles tore mercilessly through the woods.

  Many raised their heads as the engines roared overhead, then eyes widened in horror as they heard the ominous distant mechanical screams high above, Stuka dive bombers beginning their rapid descent from high in the snow clouded heavens, the defenders covering their ears in overwhelmed panic and pressing their faces deep into the frozen snow in fearful dread as more scrambled towards the rear.

  The Panzer IVs fired shell after shell, the hulks of six burning Russian tanks silhouetted against the snow as the radio burbled almost frantically from the senior unit commander, ‘SS-Untersturmführer Wittman…your tanks will move into support role! That is a direct order! The Panzerkampfwagen IVs are leading this assault with Tigers from the Heavy Battalion!’

  Hans Scharf grinned as the reply was reluctantly transmitted with forced enthusiasm, ‘Jawohl, Herr General! Proceeding as instructed to clear villages!’

  The Hanomags ground to a halt, upper machine guns peppering the darkness as shrieks of fear and defiance rang out, the rear doors sweeping open as SS Grenadiers surged outwards, their bayoneted rifles glinting in the dull morning light as they surged into the undergrowth. Bitter hand to hand fighting filled the bushes and tree laden areas, many defenders cut down and slaughtered as they stood defiantly, several fleeing outwards to be gunned down by advancing infantry or crushed and torn under the tracks of flanking Hanomags and smaller reserve tanks. The orders for ‘no prisoners’ from a Russian Army that was implemental in the destruction of the Stalingrad defenders carried out to the letter on the first day of the SS Liebstandarte SS Adolf Hitler’s Division advance.

  The division was driving to the south east, cutting the retreat of the Soviet 6th Army and 1st Guards Army…they had broken through the flanks.

  (Authors Note: This account of Michael Wittman’s fighting ability is purely fictional. Having studied the individual, he was indeed an interesting character, gifted with undoubtable fighting instinct and tactical understanding. Presumed with guile and determination, he became one of the most successful and revered tank aces of the war, but this requires ultimate luck and favourable circumstances as does all overwhelming success in individual battle. Eventually his luck ran out in Normandy in 1944 against superior strength and almost equal firepower…I have visited the battlefields he experienced in France, his strategic knowledge of the terrain is quite outstanding, especially due to the demanding pressure there must have been at the time. Perhaps the end was a true reflection of the man…unbelievably daring yet realistically unachievable. I recommend the visits to anyone, observe his thoughts and strategic planning for yourself…the terrain is also breathtakingly beautiful as most of France invariably is.)

  Chapter Twenty Five: South West of Izyum: Early March 1943

  Leutnant Hausser lowered the binoculars, grinning grimly as the snowflakes flurried down around them, a gloved hand rising to wipe the frosted ice from his forehead and eyelashes as he blinked, a cloud of exhaled breath billowing around his chiselled unshaven features.

  Tatu stared curiously at the young officer, beginning to smile in response as he rubbed his flake laden bushy moustache nervously, ‘So? What are we to do now, Herr Leutnant?’ A freezing northerly breeze enveloped their uniform padded frames, both men shifting their crouched stances on the small hillock, the cold bushes around them complimented by two snow laden trees as they exhaled heavily.

  Hausser’s grin widened in sarcasm, ‘I am ‘Herr Leutnant’ when we are alone now? That is indeed an honour…’ He chuckled as the Romanian pursed his lips in defiant jest, the older man spitting into the snow in irritation, the officer’s demeanour lightening, ‘…the Russkie positions are well dug in over the Donetz river to the north east…foxholes and forward observers, probably tanks or field guns dug into snow positions and a defensive line behind. They are reinforcing their line with extra infantry…digging more, even into the frozen snow and earth…’ His grin widened, ‘…they are scared.’ Hausser turned slowly to stare meaningfully at his friend, ‘Perhaps their fear of us is returning…let us hope so.’

  Tatu shook his head dismissively, ‘No, Herr Hausser…the ‘Russian Bear’ holds us in a tightened embrace now…I am not sure we will ever leave this barren land!’

  Hausser sniffed thoughtfully, raising the binoculars once more and scanning the terrain beyond the hill, his tone a low whisper, ‘Perhaps…but we are still together and the advance goes on.’ His gloved fingers twisted the zoom as he watched the distant figures digging and preparing their positions beyond the river, ‘Once more advancing units arrive, we will head up to the north west, skirt the river and join with Fourth Panzer Army…they are behind and to the west of us fighting the 1st Guards and 6th Russkie Armies.’ He sighed, lowering the glasses once more and indicating towards the dark smoke rising on the north west horizon, the river some distance ahead, ‘That will be Izyum…the enemy are probably preparing to defend it in strength…we will have to cross the river if the rumours of a continued advance are true. But that is not the target and they don’t know yet…’

  The faint rumble of gunfire swept across the snow fields from the south and north, Tatu noticing the officer’s grimace, ‘Radio messages indicate there is heavy fighting to the north west, the advancing Russkie 6th and 1st Guards Army are being attacked by SS units from the west and Wehrmacht from the south and east…quite a fight apparently, but the Russkies lack fuel and air support…they are virtually cut off and should be destroyed soon.’ His bloodshot eyes glistened as he glanced at the Romanian quartermaster, his sigh low, ‘Not the advances we knew of old, my friend, the war has changed…’ His upper frame stiffened, slapping the Romanian’s shoulder, ‘There will be enemy straggler units ahead…most trying to escape back northwards to the river with the help of partisans…we had better be careful. Eventually we should meet with SS units.’

  He turned slowly, indicating with a nod of his head, ‘Let’s get back to the Hanomag…Petru’s breakfast should be nearly ready now…’ His hand extended as he glanced towards the thinly held infantry defensive line on either side, the pensive young soldiers shifting uncomfortably in the cold, ‘Come on, old man…let’s get you up!’ Grinning as Tatu grunted in displeasure, they slipped back through the frozen bushes at a half crouch, increasing their pace as the slope dropped away, heading back across the snow field towards a low hamlet in the distance.

  Hausser chuckled in taunting humour as they breathed heavily, clouds of exhaled air hanging behind them, indicating to the Romanian’s heavy long dishevelled leather jacket with matted fur around the collar, ‘At least you should survive any attack…the enemy will presume you are a local peasant!’

  Tatu grunted again, pushing the young officer’s shoulder playfully, then grabbing the padded uniform as the man stumbled in the deep snow, a devious grin sweeping across his worn and greying features as he steadied him, ‘Too many Berlin dancehalls for you, Hausser…fancy footwork and an appeal to the girls will not help you here!’

  Leutnant Hausser exhaled heavily, grinning and shaking his head, ‘Dancehalls? Nein, Mein Kameraden…I was working in a factory…supporting my family from a young age. My father was badly wounded in the last war…’ His eyes glistened briefly, Tatu’s stare narrowing in surprised curiosity as the young officer’s eyes widened in realisation, ‘…possibly near here actually…not too far away I think from one letter I saw…he would never really say that much about it.’ Their boots crunched through the iced surface, powdered flakes beneath seeming to draw the energy from their weary legs as the open cold embrac
ed them, clouds of exhaled breath filling the air.

  The two men talked as they struggled through the deep frozen snow, Tatu’s eyes staring at the officer as he discussed his family for the first time openly, the local baker and how he would run from the factory to buy lower priced bread for the evening meal and following morning, his admiration of another kind war veteran that worked there, the name escaping him.

  Hausser had explained that his father suffered most in the colder months, the wounds aching and sometimes causing intense pain due to the low temperature, the older man eventually only able to work in a limited capacity during the summer period. The young officer explained how he had worked all evening until late at an engineering factory near his home, the owner, an old soldier that served with his father…his role to cover the shifts his father could not, maintaining an employee for the production line.

  Tatu shook his head in bewilderment as he asked at what age Hausser had started this job, the officer chuckling in memory and rubbing the back of his neck in almost embarrassment…he had first started in the company at the age of eleven to supplement the family income.

  Hausser continued, mentioning the specific tools they had manufactured, that the production had increased dramatically in the early 1930’s as the Weimar Republic collapsed and the rise of newer and more demanding government took over, the goods of the factory becoming more militarily specific and the work shifts far longer.

  Grinning incredulously, Hausser had shrugged, admitting sarcastically no one could have predicted the ‘new’ government would have led them into a merciless war against so many other countries. Unemployment had ceased and many building projects had begun as autobahns were constructed and the economy boomed. Many people had money for the first time in several years, his father enthusiastic initially before deep doubts had filled the older man’s mind, the move towards a military footing troubling him deeply as he became more silent and reflective, dubious for what would happen and his son’s future. Hausser admitted he could never have comprehended in his wildest dreams that he would be now in a soldier’s uniform and deep inside a cold and unforgiving Russia…only ten years later.

  Tatu had listened intently, the young officer finally turning abruptly to him and asking curiously, ‘Tell me your story, Herr quartermaster…what brought you to this place?’

  The Romanian sighed reflectively as they trudged through the single storied hamlet, the few older residents glancing furtively at them as they smoked pipes or braced themselves against the cold in ragged clothing, their meagre existences daunted by the onset of immediate war yet once more. Tatu explained he had been a young teenager during the First World War, eventually conscripted to fight and serving in trenches but never seeing action due to the nearing collapse of Germany. Eventually finding work in a furniture store, he had met Petru, the two men forming a strong friendship as they crafted the wood together, turning and shaving the material into saleable items for the businesses and residences of Bucharest. He grinned fondly, recounting the differing skills they had achieved and the joys from creating something useful to others together, lacquering and buffing the desks, tables and chairs for the upholsterer, the elderly store owner smiling in pride as he passed his extensive knowledge onto two eager students.

  Leutnant Hausser had listened in increasing interest, asking when the two friends had begun to spend more time at Petru’s house, Tatu’s eyes darkening in regret as he explained the woman he had loved had died during childbirth, the infant premature and only living for a few days.

  The young officer began to apologise profusely for asking too many questions, Tatu waving his hand dismissively and determined to continue, blinking furiously as he recounted how Petru had wept at the news, insisting resolutely he visit his apartment virtually every night for dinner after work, the two labouring far more and later than usual to suppress the emotional pain. He smiled fondly, adding how he eventually appreciated the camaraderie and friendship more than even his existence.

  Grinning emotionally as he told of the rudimentary card and small lead figure games with Petru’s children, the drinks of Romanian brandy and a warming fire even in summer evenings to welcome him, his close friend’s wife toiling continuously to provide food for both the furniture workers for lunch and dinner. He had visited the sick child in hospital several times when the boy was urgently admitted, sharing the grief and worry of the natural parents as if the child was his own, relating completely and emotionally to the utter anguish they experienced.

  Exiting the hamlet, they began to near the distant pock marked Hanomag, covered with camouflage netting and sat on the other side of a track and across a further snow bound field. The two men’s conversation had then become more subdued, both gradually falling into silence as they approached the armoured carrier. Warming welcoming smoke and heat drifted upwards from the enclosed rear cabin, the occupants smoking before consuming the cooked stored rations.

  Tatu grinned at Hausser as he knocked on the robust rear doors, hearing shuffling inside and a brief bark and growl before one creaked open. Hase’s grinning face greeted them as they clambered into the carrier, lowering their heads before rising. Hausser smiled warmly as the aroma of cooking stew swept into his nostrils, a seated Petru stirring the brown enticing meat and potato slurry in eagerness, the mouths of Udet and Sergeant Moretti openly salivating as the young Berliner spread butter on thin bread slices whilst smiling widely in hungry expectation.

  Tatu bent double, lowering his PPSH submachine gun onto the bench, the terrier dancing excitedly in front of him and licking its lips, his hands sweeping out towards the dog fondly, ‘My little Crina…you miss your uncle Tatu?’

  Petru grinned as he ladled the steaming mush into mess tins held by Udet and Hase, his voice a relishing whisper, ‘Russian rations provided by the Americans…this is the last of what we have for now.’ His grin widened fondly, ‘Russian potatoes and pork Tushonka (Russian name for lend lease food) from Uruguay and I think Peru…bread from Germany with spices from Romania…a stew to fuel an advance.’

  Udet offered one of the nourishing open topped tins towards the young commander, ‘A supply convoy passed here an hour ago, five lorries, a Hanomag and a Kubelwagen…we can catch them up and move north with the supplies, they asked us to join with them for support…warm food and ammunition all the way for the forward Fourth Army units. What do you say, Herr Leutnant? We follow this track for the best food?’

  Leutnant Hausser considered the proposal momentarily, then nodded with a wry grin, ‘Very well, we will seek them out on the road ahead once we have finished eating…’

  Tatu indicated to Udet’s helmet, the steel covered in netting, ‘Where did the fashion accessory come from? You did not have that earlier…’

  The young German grinned, ladling some of the stew into his mouth with a spoon, ‘I found them in one of the forward lockers…there is one more, and I have cut come of the white cloth I found with them to wrap round the other helmets…we need some additional camouflage.’

  Tatu nodded approvingly across at Hausser, ‘Resourceful these young Berliners…’

  Chapter Twenty Six: Interdiction

  The Hanomag SdKfz 251 lumbered on, frozen snowflakes billowing behind as the steel tracks squealed, the engine roaring as Hase pressed his scuffed boot to the accelerator, cold air sweeping through the narrow viewing slit as he blinked continually against the haze. Petru gritted his teeth next to the driver, nodding uncomfortably as the armoured carrier bounced on the jagged slope from the ditch, the wheels spinning in air as the tracks thrust the vehicle forward, the Hanomag dropping back down onto the track with a dull thud, tyres churning through the deep snow before gaining grip. The Romanian settled himself in the basic seat, shaking his head as Hase grinned, the older man stiffening, ‘You are not much of a talker, young Hase, we have a saying in Romania…historical I think…that silence is strength, that the man that says nothing knows more than others…’ He chuckled curiously, ‘I consider you m
ay be just that individual…wise, yet unwilling to pass the knowledge on?’ He glanced furtively at the Russian Hiwi, noting his widening smile.

  Hase shook his head, ‘There is little for me to say…only three of you would understand, Udet and Sergeant Moretti would feel uncomfortable…even isolated.’ He indicated ahead as several German soldiers struggled in the deep snow along the ditch at the side of the track, their figures shadowed under some high trees, the men glancing round at the engine noise behind, one raising his hand, his rifle slung across his back. As the Hanomag neared, Petru leant forward to scrutinise the figures intently, all dressed in white camouflage smocks with heavy padded boots, ‘Specialist uniforms…I wonder what division…we surely can’t be meeting the SS this far south east?’ He turned his head, hissing behind, ‘Herr Leutnant…what unit are these men ahead?’

  The Hanomag slowed as Leutnant Hausser rose up in curiosity, Tatu sniffing in the cold air at the front elevated machine gun position, his helmet covered in white cloth tied around the rim as he ducked behind the pock marked and scratched armoured shield to reduce wind chill. They noted the soldiers ahead were carrying heavy equipment, the parts for a small field gun and tubes containing spare machine gun barrels, the trooper ahead with a dark MG34 slung over his shoulder, most men with MP40s, two others with rifles and one with a scoped Kar 98 weapon, grenades tucked into their belts with bulging knapsacks on their backs. The engine burbled deeply in the freezing air, the temperature seeming to drop further as the armoured carrier slowed under the snow laden trees, the fresh aroma of foliage and tree bark filling their nostrils.