Rise of the Bloodied Phoenix

by Andrew McGregor

  Captain Medvedev was running, his chest heaving in the cold as soldiers ran past on either side. Falling to his knees, he glanced round, seeing other figures, the survivors of the Russian defences retreating at full speed, many without their weapons. Muffled firing and shouting in the distance, the officer briefly recognising German shouts to surrender before they were drowned out by machine gun fire and rifle shots. Lunging upwards, he scrambled forwards, glimpsing lorries ahead and beyond them, where he hoped his jeep from earlier would still be, the truck engines roaring as bullets whipped past. Several of the fleeing soldiers were carrying wounds, the forward supply post just before the brow of the hill and set amongst trees, the rear echelon soldiers urging their countrymen forward as they readied to leave in a hurry, many being bundled into the back of the trucks.

  Rising to run once more, he gasped, hearing the roar of the T34 engines further down the slope, the tanks and rattle of machine guns, the tanks firing out from their defences, several NKVD infantry making a determined stand with their armour to delay the enemy, their stubborn indoctrinated commanding commissar unwilling to give ground to the fascists. Medvedev stumbled forward, gritting his teeth as the soldiers ahead jumped into the transports, the lorries lurching forward to head north.

  Finally reaching the jeep, he glimpsed the driver dead and slumped in the snow at the driver’s side, his back torn from machine gun fire. Several other bodies lay scattered around the clearing, the aerial strafing having had some luck through the trees, discarded equipment and fuel cans around the bodies, the men having been in process of resupplying the lorries and transports.

  Further to the right under the extended branches of the trees, in his rising panic Medvedev glimpsed the tubes of spare mortars and several Maxim machine guns in an open tent, rifles and PPSH submachine gun boxes were stacked further along the tree line in a similar covering. His eyes narrowed in frustrated anger and exasperation as he considered they could have been deployed to the line further south, perhaps even have saved some lives or stopped the enemy. A narrow track extended into the woodland, the captain seeing the shadowed outline of small armoured personnel carriers and large boxes stacked under tarpaulin. All the munitions and food now destined to fall into the hands of the Germans.

  Another soldier slumped down next to him, his greatcoat torn and face ashen with shock, ‘We need to get out of here…is the jeep broken down?’

  Medvedev stared at the stunned and shocked soldier, more men running past in panic across the clearing towards the small personnel carriers further under the trees, one shouting desperately as he passed, ‘The fascists are clearing the trees below….it will not be long before they get here!’

  The captain indicated to the soldier knelt in the snow, seeing the man was shaking in fright, ‘Get in! This is my jeep…’ The soldier scrambled upwards, heaving himself into the passenger seat, Medvedev’s eyes widening once more as he grunted in distain, ‘So I drive too…’ Explosions tore through the trees, the branches cracking and falling, his body jumping as he realised the German artillery was now shelling rear areas, his hands shaking as he climbed into the vehicle and gunned the engine. The tyres spun in the snow then gained grip, the captain glancing back down the slope and slowing as two further breathless stunned soldiers clambered aboard, the jeep then gathering speed…heading north.

  The Hanomag surged onwards after the Sturmgeschutz III, the self-propelled gun smashing into and through the defensive line, exhaust fumes billowing over the carrier behind as Moretti ducked down, the armoured vehicles beginning to grind up the slope behind the broken Russian line. Further armoured carriers smashed through the trees on either side, the gunners rising and grasping the forward machine guns, bursts of fire erupting as muzzles flashed towards the retreating silhouettes in the distance, several twisting and falling.

  Emerging from the smoke, the carrier jolted to a halt, Sergeant Moretti and Hausser staring at the distant figures running in the snow, the young commander raising his binoculars and panning them across the terrain, his voice a determined hiss to Moretti, ‘Keep pulling the bolt…pretend the weapon is jammed, we don’t fire on retreating troops…we are not murderers…’ The Italian nodded wide eyed, tracers sweeping across the snow from the guns on either side, his shaking hands fumbling with the gun as Hausser shouted, wary of SS infantry passing on either side, pointing forward, ‘Fire at them!’ The bolt on the machine gun clanked back several times, bullets ejected from the side mechanism as Moretti smacked his fists down on the weapon, imitating the actions of a frustrated gunner whose weapon was jammed.

  The young commander moved the glasses further across the horizon, glimpsing a jeep pull away from some tree cover, several lorries from the Russian rear supply area following with smaller carriers, his head turning to Tatu, ‘The Russkies are running for their lives…broken units…once the Panzers are regrouped, we will be advancing very quickly…we won’t be stopping now!’

  He lowered the glasses, the Romanian grunting in displeasure as explosions detonated on the horizon, the tracers still sweeping across the snow towards any remaining retreating infantry. Tatu stared down at the blood smeared white ground, the crumpled crimson stained bodies lying across the scorched expanse, his head shaking in despondency, ‘How did they expect to hold here? Fully visible to our artillery and dive bombers…they would have needed considerable tank support and their own heavy artillery, properly dug defences…stupid fools.’

  Engines roared to the right, the Stug’s tracks squealing as it spun round, grinding off to the right, gunfire and explosions erupting far to the flank as the rear-guard Russian tanks and defenders desperately engaged German armour and infantry.

  Leutnant Hausser grimaced in disapproval, hissing as Tatu spat over the side of the carrier, ‘A last stand by the communists?’ The Hanomags jolted forward on either side, heading up the slope, his fist banging the armoured plate below, ducking his head to shout into the front compartment, ‘Advance to the north…let’s get after the Russians before they regroup.’

  Chapter Forty Two: A Stronger Advance…a Tiger for Company

  The heavy tank had lumbered forward, bullets clanking against its hull as the commander smiled inside the turret, the fire unable to damage the thick armoured plate, his mood confident as he had been told the distant city outskirts were ahead to the east. They had watched as the first few Russian soldiers ran from the relatively new weapon, the wide tracks grinding forward through defensive positions and over anti-tank guns, crushing the artillery pieces beneath the 50 ton tank, the turret motor whirring as the gunner sought new victims on either side.

  Supported by Panzer IV and III medium tanks, the Panzerkampfwagen VI or Tiger I had been issued to the 2nd SS Panzer Division ‘Das Reich’ in small numbers for the offensive, the remaining vehicles to be supplied still on flatbed rail wagons in Kiev, en-route from the factories in Germany.

  Stopping for a brief respite, the delay of two or three days to allow the forces in the south to advance further northwards, Adlan Meier had moved his Tiger I near to the defensive front, keen to provide the main gunner and new driver with extra combat practice. The couple of days’ rest had instilled the crew with extra confidence, the forward 88mm gun firing shell after shell into the Russian defensive positions, the gunner’s accuracy improving as the hours and two days passed, Adlan requiring him to fire accurately even whilst the tank was moving. The few T34s that attempted to engage the powerful new tank were disabled or destroyed at a distance of 1700-2000 metres across the flat barren snowbound terrain, the surviving enemy machines retreating in fear as they realised they could inflict little or no damage at this range.

  Using binoculars, Adlan and his crew had intently studied the landscape leading to the city, briefing the other tank crews and infantry commanders before perusing the maps of the terrain beyond their visibility, knowing the order to advance would come in several hours. His deep brown eyes flashed in the candlelight as he quizzed each of his crew as to thei
r understanding of the secondary roles, should one of their countrymen become wounded or incapacitated.

  At twenty eight, the brown haired and slim tank commander was a stickler for detail, continually questioning his men as to possible enemy positions, the disadvantages and vulnerabilities of certain lines of advance, the crewmen debating the advantages of other routes.

  Finally coming to an overall conclusion, the four man crew and their commander talked openly of how much time they would need to reach the city outskirts and what supplies could be more effectively stored in the Tiger I for the advance. The gunner interjected and confidently stated the turret and floor could house more than the standard 92 shells, probably managing to stash over 100 or even 110 if he was given enough time to ensure safety. Adlan grinned at the young German’s pride, the gunner a replacement for his regular crewman, the youngster having been recruited from the lower powered support Panzers after his friend broke his wrist in a freak accident whilst practising with the new breech six days earlier, the previous driver also now in a rear medical tent suffering from a severe chest infection.

  The crew lit cigarettes, sitting in a tent placed next to their new beloved machine, the Tiger I now less than one kilometre behind the front line. Adlan Meier nodded in agreement and admiration for his men, grinning and reaching into a nearby knapsack, producing a large ceramic bottle of Russian Vodka, smiles extending round the group as the aroma of cooking stew swept across the small encampment of black uniformed Panzer crews.

  Adlan Meier awoke groggily, the hangover seeming to pulse across his temples, weary eyes closing as the warm heat from their fire swept over his face, the morning air bitterly cold. Shivering under thick blankets, his eyes flickered open, yawning widely as he stretched sleepily beneath the coverings, his vision blurred initially before the focus returned.

  His eyes widened when he glimpsed the black combat Panzer uniforms moving between two Tiger I’s and the supply tents, many carrying additional long shells and machine gun canisters. The young gunner lowered before him, blocking out the sight, his hand outstretched with a mess tin full of steaming stew, ‘Herr SS-Stabsscharführer …we wanted you to sleep. I have placed 106 shells in our Panzer and we have additional fuel cans for the advance…’ The young twenty three year old blue eyed and matted blonde hair gunner grinned widely in excitement, his black cap in his hand, ‘Sir…the order to advance has come…you are wanted in the command tent, we move in thirty minutes!’

  The Maybach V12 engine coughed, then roared into life, Adlan Meier sitting aloft in the turret and adjusting his cap, lowering the padded headphones over his ears, a gloved hand reaching for the lower microphone. Drawing breath, he grinned with adrenalin, engines bursting into life around the Panzer camp, the heavy Tigers sitting under tree cover in a shallow ravine as the Hanomag engines burbled above in heavy undergrowth.

  Adlan lowered his head to speak into the microphone, the silver death’s head on his cap glinting in the morning light, ‘Forward…’

  Engines roared around him, tracks spinning in the snow, the Tiger I’s surging across the ravine floor and rising up the track that led from the depression, the armoured carriers emerging from tree cover on either side. On the raised ground above the tree surrounded natural drop, crews frantically readied their armoured vehicles, the long wood line on either side of the hollow providing aerial protection and cover for the armoured carriers and medium Panzer IVs. The 2nd SS Panzer Division Das Reich had made use of the respite out on the cold steppe, moving considerable reinforcements up in the last couple of days, preparing for the next phase of the operation to retake the city ahead.

  The Tiger turret slowly emerged from the shallow depression, snow laden bushes lining the sharp drop, the Hanomag upper gunners grinning in excitement as plumes of exhaust billowed upwards in the cold morning air, the first large tank’s tracks squealing. The black uniformed lead turret commander grasped the front of the turret ring for support as the wheels spun, the heavily armoured vehicle dropping forward onto the flat ground after the slope and churning forward. Five more steel beasts followed, the mottled white camouflaged Tigers lumbering out into the field before them, powdered snow billowing behind.

  Forming up into a line, the Tiger commanders glanced round, nodding pensively to each other as the Hanomags rolled into position behind, Panzer IV medium tanks emerging from the cover of the trees, their engines burbling as they ground forward to adopt a protective screen on the flanks.

  SS-Stabsscharführer Adlan Meier felt the cold breeze bite around his chiselled features, the turret ring below vibrating softly as he raised binoculars to his eyes. Scanning the relatively quiet front line, he glimpsed the helmets of the defensive grenadiers in their slit trenches, many also observing the Russian positions some five hundred metres further east. A low weak curling mist drifted across the white fields towards the enemy positions, the Russians known to be in treelines and hamlets beyond, with several pak gun emplacements and machine gun nests.

  Glancing at his watch, Adlan straightened his collar, the SS Runes and shield of his unit seeming almost warm to the touch, moving the headphones to around his neck. The young man realised the cold of the metal on the tank ring had filtered through his gloves, the warmth nothing more than his own body heat beneath the padded combat jacket.

  Staring back through the binoculars once more, he drew breath, the distant rumble of artillery to the rear signalling the start of the advance, the whoosh overhead almost instantaneous. Hearing further thuds, he turned in the cupola, glancing round at the Hanomags behind, all covered in mottled whitewash for camouflage, the upper gunners staring out from behind their protective armoured shields, clouds of exhaled breath seeming to hang in the air. Behind the machine gunners, each carrier held ten or twelve heavily armed and white padded jacketed infantrymen, most with rifles or MP40s, many with grenades tucked into their belts.

  Raising the binoculars again, he glimpsed the numerous detonations on the horizon, the flashes extending through the low mist, the muffled sound waves reaching them a couple of seconds later. Smoke rose skywards, black billowing masses beginning to extend upwards into the cold air, the rumbling behind continuing as heavy artillery fired towards the Russian defences.

  Adlan spun round as more defined whooshes were heard, a Nebelwerfer battery firing from within the nearby tress, the rockets soaring upwards from their launchers as engineers ducked in nearby foxholes. Smoke trails began to surge across the dull sky, the tank commanders and infantrymen staring in awe as the numerous glowing streaks spread across the dull grey clouded sky, the ignited rockets sweeping towards the east.

  The roar of engines behind spread across the landscape, almost deafening as several gunners ducked instinctively, Me109 fighters streaking low above the prepared armour, Adlan swallowing hard as the sixteen planes tore towards the enemy positions. Glancing upwards as the engine noise continued, twelve Bf110 twin engine fighter bombers heading beneath the grey clouds towards their mission goal, the bombs to clear rear defences and assist the division’s advance.

  SS-Stabsscharführer Adlan Meier raised his microphone, gritting his teeth, ‘Panzers Marsche!’

  The engines revved around him, the Tiger I lurching forward as he raised his binoculars once more, the explosions in the distance falling across the Russian line, the dots of ME109 fighters sweeping across the sky as they strafed the forward defences. The massive tracks cracked over broken branches, churning the frozen snow as Adlan lowered into the machine, closing the turret above him with a dull clunk.

  The heavy Tigers rolled across the snow bound terrain for some distance, the medium tanks protecting the flanks, the formation repeated both north and south of the middle section. Hanomags rolled behind, passing the forward foxholes, the SS infantry on foot rising to trudge after the forward motorised attack and behind them, six SdKfz 19 halftracks towing 20mm anti-aircraft guns, the high powered vehicles also used for recovery of the heavy tanks if required.

  Black pl
umes of smoke filled the horizon, burning defensive positions and destroyed vehicles littered with broken bodies, the high explosive artillery rounds having wreaked havoc amongst the Russian emplacements. The reinforced hamlets and farm buildings had been shattered, many burning fiercely, flames bursting upwards through the shuttered windows, ammunition cracking as it detonated inside.

  Adlan stared through the forward viewing slit, occasionally checking the optics above as the Tiger rumbled forward, the progress slow due to its immense weight and heavy cargo. Glancing round the turret, he grinned at his two level crewmen, the driver and radio operator below and further forward, shells stacked above the tracks for convenience and within easy reach for reloading.

  Lowering his eyes to the machine gun optic once more, Adlan swallowed, realising the tanks were now approaching the Russian lines, flashes erupting to the north and south as machine guns opened fire, rifle rounds fired in frustration cracking off the armoured plate. The flash off to the right made him jump, the Russian pak gun firing at the range of 500 metres. The clank was deafening, the tank jolting as the round bounced off the thick armoured plate, Adlan swearing aloud at his hesitation with his ears ringing, ‘Scheisse! Open Fire!’

  His eyes lowered to the optics once more, small anti-tank rifle fire bouncing off the turret, the pings and clunking irritatingly loud as he winced, the lower MG34 pouring bullets forth towards the Russian line. The Tiger next to them bucked, smoke billowing from its 88mm gun as the explosion tore through the pak gun shield, the flash and blast wave tossed the crew backwards, shrapnel from the torn artillery piece thrown upwards.

  The Tiger tracks whined as the tanks accelerated, speeding towards the enemy front line, the terrain rising as machine gun bullets tore through trees and undergrowth, the defending infantry ducking down further, their eyes wide with shock as some glimpsed the new German armour. Hanomags charged forward, filling the gaps between the tanks, the upper machine guns peppering the shallow trenches, many of the Russian infantry rising to run away in panic, their bodies falling or twisting as rounds swept through flesh and bone.