by Stuart Slade
Shulgin took his place in the trench, his rifle ready and waiting. Another change from the old days. Back in ‘42 he’d been taught to dig one- or two-man foxholes, laid out in platoon formations. The problem was that they collapsed under fire. Worse, the men in them were on their own. They were completely isolated unable to hear or see the orders. That had made leadership and command almost impossible. Every man believed the others were already dead or retreating, that he was the only person left alive. Then it seemed that enemies were all shooting just at him. So now the rule was to dig trenches, full depth if there was time, half depth if there was not. But every man could see his comrades and they could see him. A man’s spirit might fail if he was on his own, but to show cowardice when one’s comrades were watching? Impossible!
“Here they come!” Tovarish Major called out. Sure enough, it had been 30 minutes to the second. It was obvious from the strong rumble of explosions that the attack on the frontline had started. The sounds of explosions drew closer, and was joined by a massive roar of engines. That meant the enemy tanks were coming. Shulgin saw the forward security pickets appearing at the ridge and running towards the anti-tank guns. They ran to the company commander, explained something to him and the order went out. “Prepare for the tank attack!” There were no drugs in the 161st. The troops were in their half-trenches. The artillerists tried to camouflage their guns with branches, mud anything they could find.
At that moment some people in Russian khaki appeared on the ridge. They ran towards the guns as fast as their legs would carry them. To Shulgin that meant just one thing. The front line was completely broken and an avalanche of tanks and Panzergrenadiers was about to descend on them. The artillerists were waiting by their guns, the barrels were trained along the ridge, ready for the first vehicles to cross. They didn’t have to wait long. Fascist tanks, at least ten of them, crossed the ridgeline and rolled forward at high speed. They fired their machine-guns at the fleeing infantry. Shulgin identified them. 4th series tanks; they looked archaic compared with sleek Panthers and hulking Tigers but they were deadly enough. They were running down the hillside, firing their main guns non-stop. Shulgin sneered at that, it was a trick that worked against inexperienced drugs but veterans know it was almost impossible to fire accurately on the move.
Shulgin had to remind himself of that. He wanted to flee, his legs kept trying to run but he forced himself to remain still. Then two loud explosions as the fascist tanks hit some mines. An engineer platoon had hastily laid them while the infantry were digging in. Two tanks, out of ten! Shulgin cheered, the more so because one of the tanks was burning while the other had spun on its wrecked roadwheels. The rest lumbered on, bearing down on the infantry. One came up on a trench. It spun around on its tracks, driving along the length of the ditch. When it came out the other end, Shulgin could see its wheels and tracks were bright red. A 57mm cracked and the shot hit the tank square in the side. It started to burn, its crew struggled to get out but they were shot down before they had a chance.
More shots from the 57s; return fire from the 75s in the tanks. Shulgin and the infantry stayed down. They had to let the tanks pass through their positions and stop the Panzergrenadiers before they could get to the artillerists. There was one small problem with that plan. It was such a minor problem he was sure it had escaped those of higher rank who were paid to think on such things. The problem was that the tank was made of steel, and infantrymen were not. It wasn’t impossible to knock out the tanks with grenades and satchel charges, but it was even harder escape afterwards. Even if they disabled a tank, that didn’t end the matter. The crew might not abandon the immobilized tank, they might stay and continue to fight. That was why the order had come down. “You should always burn the tank.”
The remaining tanks were almost on them. The 57s fired to the end, Shulgin could see one gun, its crew slumped around it. The artillerists had fought their gun to the muzzle, until they’d been cut down by a shell from a tank. One of the fascist tanks was very close. For a moment, Shulgin thought he was dreaming because he saw two members of the dead crew come to life. Their gun had been loaded and they’d been waiting their chance. It wasn’t only fascist tankers who could stay at their post and continue to fight. The armor-piercing shot from the 57mm smacked into the side of the tank, just under the turret. There was a split second of silence then the tank erupted in an explosion. Smoke and flame poured out of every hatch, every port in the armor. Panzer grenadiers were all over one gun crew, the artillerists were fighting back with pistols, clubs, anything that came to hand. They fought their gun to the muzzle and beyond so that the fascists could not claim they’d captured a Russian gun while a member of its crew still lived.
Shulgin had been firing his rifle on remote control. His thumb and forefinger worked the bolt, his little finger squeezed the trigger. He’d run out of pre-loaded magazines and was loading from stripper clips, the same way his old three-line rifle had been loaded. Another tank was burning in front of him. The Company Commander was beside him, clapping him on the back.
“Well done Bratischka. A well thrown grenade indeed!”
Shulgin shook his head, he couldn’t remember throwing grenade at that tank. All he could remember was firing his rifle at the panzer-grenadiers surrounding the 57mm. Perhaps the man who had thrown the grenade was dead and command wanted living heroes, not dead ones.
“Men, fall back. Our work here is done. Help the artillerists with their guns.”
The words made no sense. Shulgin looked around. The fascists had fallen back. They’d nearly made it through but not quite. Six tanks knocked out, and three half tracks burned. Many figures in gray spread around the Russian position; many figures in Russian khaki as well. Shulgin went over to the gun whose crew had fought the fascists hand-to-hand around the barrel. Only three were left.
“Tovarish artillerist, let me help you with your gun.”
They nodded, dumbly, still in shock at the ferocity of the fight. In the gloom of the near-night, the survivors of the Russian force started manhandling the anti-tank guns back to their start line. Falling back before the fascist artillery could pound them in their positions.
“Tovarish Shulgin, I must inform you that Sasha has been killed. I wish you to take his place.” The Company Commander looked tired and gray. Shulgin looked around. As far as he could see, the company was reduced to 10 tol2 soldiers and only one of the lieutenants still lived. Why? What had this attack achieved, they ‘d seized the ridge, then just given it up? It didn’t make sense. His company had been chewed up again, for nothing. He shook his head sadly, they’d advanced this evening, he’d thought he was a few steps closer to his home in Kineshma on the Volga but now they were back where they’d started.
The Company Commander looked at his new Sergeant Major and knew just what was running through the man’s mind. It was so easy to explain in a classroom. A spoiling attack, one that pinned down an enemy unit, bloodied it so it wouldn’t be able to fight somewhere else. A fascist plan ruined, their units wrong-footed. So easy to say in a classroom. How to tell it to a man who was helping push an anti-tank gun because not enough of its crew were left alive to do it for themselves? The Company Commander lead the way back through the darkening woods in silence because he lacked the words to explain what they’d achieved this evening. He didn’t think the words existed, not in any book a man might want to read.
Curly Battery B, US Navy 5th Artillery Battalion, Kola Peninsula.
“Early for dusk?” Commander James Perdue spoke cautiously. The darkening sky seemed threatening somehow. It shouldn’t have; the snow had finally stopped and there was but a light sprinkling still coming down. It was the clouds that did it. The setting sun was between them and the ground so the light reflected off the overcast, drenching everything in a sinister yellow glow.
“It’s those clouds.” Captain Walker McKay confirmed it. “They’re bringing down the dusk a whole hour early. At least they’ll keep the warmth in.”
> That was one of the lessons of the Kola Peninsula. A clear night was incredibly beautiful, the stars shone brilliantly, the moon seemed larger than it should — but the same clear, dry air sent the temperature plummeting downwards to depths that were killing cold. A clouded night was better, even if one couldn’t admire the stars.
Perdue looked around again. The Russian ASTAC work crews were already clearing the tracks of the last splattering of snow. The Allied Strategic Transport Administration Committee had been one of the first organizations founded when the Americans had started to arrive in Russia. Supplies that were desperately needed on the front had been piling up in Vladivostok instead. The Americans wanted to move them and were prepared to do whatever it took to get the supplies shifted. So were the Russians. The problem had been coordinating the two. ASTAC had grown as a result; an organization flung together out of American, Russian and Indian transport experts to make sure the railways, ports and Air Bridge worked to maximum efficiency. The Americans had been shipping in track, rolling stock and traffic management expertise. The Indians had built the Afghan and Persian railways. The Russians had put in the backbreaking labor to keep everything running.
It was something that left the Americans quietly in awe, the grim, silent determination of the Russians that they would not be beaten. Not by the weather. Not by the Germans. Not by anybody or anything. Quietly, at night, the American officers asked themselves one question about their allies. How could the Germans have thought that these people would ever give up? Even after the frightful battering they had taken in 1941 and 1942, the Russians had fought on; on the front lines, deep in their own rear areas to produce the tools their army needed, deep in the enemy rear as partisans. The work crews here had labored with that same grim determination. They were supposed to keep the tracks clear for the great guns to use, and they were going to do just that.
Captain McKay had already left Curly and was well on his way towards Moe 400 yards away when the air raid sirens went off. At first Perdue thought it was the siren warning of an outbound shoot or inbound artillery fire so rare was the air raid warning. It took a second or two for the wailing’s real identity to sink in. By then, muscle memory had taken over and he was running for the shelter of Curly’s locomotive. He’d just made it when four Focke-Wulf 190s swept over the hill, their wingtips almost touching, their noses and wings sparkled with the flashes of their cannon and machine guns.
Almost as soon as they had appeared, the twin 40mm guns that surrounded the railway artillery battalion opened up. Twelve mounts, two one each train, six on the ground surrounding the site, all with on-mount radar fire control. German fighter-bomber tactics were different from American. American pilots would have gone for the antiaircraft guns first and come back for the trains. The Germans made a straight line for their primary targets, the three railway gun trains.
Perdue heard the concussion of the aircraft bombs going off. Eleven hundred pounders? Sounded like it. Then the crash was drowned out by a rippling, tearing noise. He knew what that was. German aircraft carried a container was filled with hundreds of two-pound fragmentation bombs. They’d be released at low level and would shred anything not under cover. Perdue flinched and tried to squeeze himself deeper under the protective bulk of the locomotive. Then, the crackle of bombs and the roar of the engines was gone and there was a strange, eerie silence. At last it was broken by the wail of the “all clear.”
He got up, looking around at the sight of the artillery unit. It didn’t seem too bad. A lot of smoke and obviously some fires somewhere, but not so bad.
“Sir, Commander, Sir.” One of the young Lieutenants was gasping for breath. “Captain McKay is dead. They got him in the open. Your orders, Sir?”
Perdue looked at him. “Get me a status report now. I want to know the exact condition of each of our guns. And their trains.”
Perdue didn’t actually know whether he was in command or not. With Captain McKay dead the command devolved upon the senior gun commander. That would be Commander Dale with Larry. Somebody had to do something though, somebody had to be in charge and Dale could always take over later.
“Sir, Larry’s locomotive took a direct hit, it’s gone. Commander Dale is missing.” Well, that solved that. “The railway lines have been torn up. It looks like the 190s carried two 1,100 pounders each and one of those cluster bomb things. We can’t move any of the trains, even if the locomotives were working.”
“What’s wrong with Curly and Moe?” Perdue turned around, Curly’s locomotive was swathed in steam.”
“Both damaged sir, strafing hits.”
“Very well. Get the commander of the ASTAC unit over here.”
The Lieutenant doubled away, then came back a few minutes later with an engineer.
“Tovarish Major.” An idle thought ran through Perdue’s mind. If his father had heard me using the Russian “comrade” so familiarly when growing up, he’d probably have taken a strap to my backside. “How soon can we repair the tracks?”
The Russian pursed his lips, thinking. “By mid-day tomorrow certainly. If these were normal trains, we could do it much faster than that but these heavy guns? They are more tolerant of bad tracks than normal railway wagons but still we must take very good care to make sure the tracks are bedded down properly.”
Perdue nodded. It was too long. “How badly is the bombed locomotive wrecked? Can we use some parts from it to repair the other two?”
It was the Russian’s turn to nod. “We can. Or my men can repair the parts that are damaged. But only two locomotives. The bombed one will never move again.”
“Then we need only repair two lines then yes? How soon can we manage that?”
“By dawn. Certainly by then, if your men can help as well.”
“Very good.” Perdue looked around. The ridge to the west of them was stained by a column of black smoke where one of the Focke-Wulfs hadn’t escaped the anti-aircraft guns. “I will give orders that every available man not needed for the guns will join you.”
Perdue walked over to the command carriage and sat down with the communications lines. Ten minutes later, he had a better picture of what was going on. There were three German thrusts. One from Finland that was biting deep into the Canadians holding that front. A second between Lakes Ladoga and Onega. The Russians had pulled a fast one, a pre-emptive attack with their 161st Rifle Division. The division had been chewed up, badly, but they’d knocked the Germans off balance. That thrust was stymied. The third thrust was due south. That was reported to be moving up relatively fast. It would be at his position shortly after dawn, assuming the Germans fought through the night. They probably would. Some of their units had the new-fangled night fighting equipment.
Three thrusts, obviously aimed at encircling and destroying the troops holding the southern part of the Kola Front. Perdue had his orders. If he couldn’t get his guns out, he was to blow them up. The Germans must not be allowed to capture them.
Perdue looked at the three great railway guns. In his heart, he knew that blowing them up and exfiltrating his troops was the right way to go. The Germans would move fast, even at night. His unit couldn’t stand off the forces that were reportedly moving up on him. If he wasn’t careful, his guns could be captured in the chaos of a night action. But, although it was the sensible decision, he wrote it off. Larry was beyond saving. With its locomotive gone, it couldn’t be moved. He’d shoot with it all night if he could then blow it up. But Curly and Moe could be saved. Perdue decided that he would be damned before he’d blow them both up as well.
Front Held By The 3rd Canadian Infantry Division, Kola Peninsula, Russia
The lakes had been the way through. Ever since the Continuation War had started, the lakes had been barriers to an attack. In summer, they were impassible, they were large enough to need a full-scale amphibious operation to cross and that would alert the defenses the other side. In winter, they were thickly iced enough to cross but the hard sheet gave no cover and any infantry that t
ried would be exposed as the machine guns cut them down. That was just a way to commit suicide. Normally; not this time.
The storm had been the worst in living memory. It had blanked the moon out for days, leaving the nights pitch-black. Its subzero cold froze the ice unusually thick for the time of year and it had dumped almost three meters of snow on top of that ice. That had provided cover and turned what had been a barrier into a highway through the Canadian defenses. A highway that Lieutenant Martti Ihrasaari and his platoon had exploited. Now, they were deep behind the Canadian positions, blocking the road that the Canadian unit behind them would have to use for its retreat.
The Canadian unit had been hit in front by artillery fire and a determined infantry assault. The Canadians weren’t Germans whose orders from the top had always been to hold their ground at any cost. Nor were they Russians who held grimly on out of sheer bloody-mindedness. The Canadians believed in a flexible defense. When hit by prepared artillery barrages, they fell back, out of the line of fire. Then they regrouped and regained ground by counter-attack. A sensible tactic; one that the Finns themselves used. This time they intended to turn it against the Canadian troops.
Ihrasaari’s platoon was dug into position, covering the road when the Canadian unit appeared. Mostly infantry moving back, some Universal Carriers. Ihrasaari had already pushed the bolt on his rifle home and was taking careful aim, selecting his target with scrupulous attention. One of the Canadians was showing initiative, watching the men retreating back along the hastily plowed road. An officer, possibly, an NCO probably. One who was looking after his men and that professionalism would cost him his life. Ihrasaari took a deep breath, held it and then fired. The man spun around and fell down. First blood.
