by Colin Gee
Serzhant Igorov’s finger tightened on the trigger.
Lieutenant Colonel Stromov’s blood splattered Igorov, as a .30-06 bullet made its inexorable way through his brain from ear to ear.
The lifeless body flopped into the snow, the officer’s eyes wide open in surprise at both his untimely death and the defiance of his men.
The soldiers withdrew into the woods, some pausing only to spit upon the cooling corpse of their regimental commander.
“Nice shot. Damn nice shot.”
“Thanks, Sarge.”
Ford checked that his eyes hadn’t deceived him and let out a low whistle.
“Doesn’t that hurt?”
“Hurts like hell, Sarge.”
Ford inspected the protruding pencil, screwing his face up at the unusual injury.
“Don’t know where the fuck that is in relation to your artery, Dirk, but I sure as shit ain’t pulling it out.”
Irlam looked over the NCO’s shoulder, his eyes suddenly full of concentration.
“Shh.”
Ford brought up his Thompson, ready to fire, as his ears caught a nearby slithering sound.
A soft voice caught his attention.
“Rangers?”
Ford relaxed, recognising the source of the challenge.
“Here, Captain. In the trench.”
“Coming in.”
Unceremoniously arriving on top of Ford, Barkmann rolled into the trench.
“Jeez, First Sergeant, I thought I’d lost you.”
Barkmann slapped the sniper on the shoulder and then screwed his face up.
“Ouch. You been fighting the Apache or something, Corporal?”
“It’s a pencil, Captain.”
The Ranger officer took a closer look.
“Oh lordy, so it is.”
Ford’s look was enough to bring him back to business.
“Anyway, we’re bugging out, so let’s get moving, boys.”
By agreement between General Pierce and Général de Division Leroy-Bessette, commander of Group Lorraine, the border between the two commands was adjusted to Metting, where the left flank of Tannenberg butted up to the right flank of Pierce’s 16th Armored.
In the two hours or so since the Rangers had retreated from Drulingen, the Red Army had renewed its assaults elsewhere, and been stopped dead a mile north-east of Weyer, as well as on the outskirts of Gungwiller.
The arrival of Allied air forces had been instrumental in ravaging the attacking Soviet units before the waiting soldiers of the 16th US Armored and 2nd US Infantry smashed the advancing tanks and infantry in thirty minutes of intense bloody action.
Fig# 129 - Junction between 16th US Armored Division and Group Lorraine, 22nd January 1946.
The original plan had been adapted, having, as often was the case, not survived first contact, and now it fell to Command Group Lorraine to make the first big strides in regaining the lost ground.
With a firm base at Hangviller, elements of Lorraine’s Tannenberg and Sevastopol units would sweep the field, with the immediate goal of restoring la Petite Pierre and Petersbach to Allied control. Subsequently, 2nd US Infantry would recover Tieffenbach, Diemeringen, and Lorentzen.
The lead elements of Tannenberg were already rolling through Schoenbourg and Eschbourg when the first reports arrived, suggesting that a large force of tanks and infantry was approaching Hangviller, seemingly intent on turning Tannenberg’s flank.
Fig# 130 - Hangviller - Allied defensive positions.
0900 hrs, Wednesday, 22nd January 1946, Hangviller, France.
The prehistoric growling of the Maybach engines was interrupted.
“On.”
“Wait.”
Silence… broken only by the low-key whirr of the electric traverse as the gunner kept track of his target.
“Wait.”
Silence… the low sound of orders on the radio net, as the force commander held his men in check.
Across the defensive line, professional soldiers, tried on the harshest fields of man’s endeavour, settled behind their machine-guns, in their tanks, and around their Paks.
They waited, trusting the judgement of their officer.
It was called fire discipline.
The tank’s gunner could easily have fired and dispatched his target, but the unit commander hadn’t yet given the order, so the gun remained silent, locked on to its prey until the moment came.
“Wait.”
To their front, a line of Soviet tanks and lend-lease universal carriers advanced inexorably towards Hangviller, the tanks firing as they came, more for self-encouragement than for any expectation of hitting a target.
“Wait,” Köster repeated, also more for his own benefit than that of Caporal Jarome, the gunner.
“Wait,” hull machine gunner Private Wintzinger heard as he chewed his lip in anticipation.
Fig# 131 – Allied Forces at Hangviller.
The order to fire combined with the roar of the 88mm, as an armour-piercing shell went down range.
“Hit.”
A hit was not necessarily a kill, so Köster waited for a moment before making a decision.
“Hit it again.”
‘Lohengrin’ was a tank that worked like a well-oiled machine, and its crew served it like they were simple extensions of the whole.
Jarome put another shell into the target, and they were rewarded with a spectacular explosion that dispatched pieces of tank in all directions, the turret dramatically bouncing off one of the universal carriers as it cartwheeled across the ground.
“Target, right five.”
“On.”
The 88mm spoke again, sending more death towards the attacking force.
Schultz, the loader, sweated as he hoisted the heavy shells into the breech, one after the other, rhythmically working, adjusting his position occasionally as he took shells from different stowage points.
Fig# 132 – Soviet Forces at Hangviller.
“Load HE next. Gunner, engage the infantry vehicles. Target left two.”
Schultz slid the AP round back in place and grabbed for high-explosives instead.
“On.”
The heavy cannon spat its shell and a universal carrier disappeared in a ball of flame; detritus, obviously mainly body parts, flew in all directions.
The small personnel carriers were not the swiftest of beasts and the five tanks of 1st Kompagnie, 5th Legion Régiment de Chars D’Assaut, picked them off with ease as they split, desperate to find some sort of cover.
Fig#133 – Soviet assault on Hangviller.
Courageously, some drivers slowed their charges to permit the infantry to dismount and seek their own place of preservation or, in one or two instances, to charge forward with blind courage, holding an anti-tank weapon or mine, intent on distracting the Legion gunners.
Wintzinger’s machine-gun started to hammer out and Köster watched fascinated as a group of five Red Army soldiers was literally carved apart by streams of bullets.
“Target, left, two.”
The carrier they had sprung from came apart as Jarome put another round bang on target.
Soviet artillery started to land in and around the Tannenberg defensive positions and quickly started to yield casualties amongst the supporting Legionnaire infantry.
Köster heard the order immediately, the experienced company commander reacting as would be expected.
“Panzer marsch! Formation Anton!”
His own orders stuck in his throat as he inhaled a piece of paint flake, dislodged by a near explosion.
He coughed it clear and pressed the throat microphone.
“Driver advance... formation Anton... watch out for infantry close up.”
As the only Tiger in the company, ‘Lohengrin’ was the centre tank. Formation Anton required the Tiger to lead in the centre position, moving ahead of the flanking Panzer IV’s, who would move outwards, leaving roughly seventy metres between vehicles.
Behind the advancing tanks,
the guns of the Legion infantry fell silent as the two platoons displaced.
Machine-gun bullets pattered off the Tiger’s armour, ineffective at anything except identifying the location of the firers, and Wintzinger took down each in turn.
The carriers, or what was left of them, were desperately trying to quit the field in the face of the advancing tanks. Again, brave men slowed their vehicles to permit knots of infantry to board their mobile illusion of safety.
“Target...right, three.”
The 88mm remained silent.
“You got him, Hans?”
A soft hum was the only reply, and it was a full five seconds before the main gun hammered backwards in its mount.
“Just letting them all get aboard, Oberscharfuhrer.”
The target vehicle was in flames, so much so that Köster was unable to see if any of the men that had been clambering aboard had survived.
And then something moved in the flames, a something that had once been a son or a father, but was now in pieces and dying in the most excruciating way.
The main gun was still on target, and Jarome gave a squirt from the co-axial to still the suffering form permanently.
A warning shout from the driver, Meier, cut off halfway through as something smashed into the glacis plate.
“Say again!”
“Anti-tank gun... three hundred and fifty metres...dead ahead, tank moving left.”
In truth, Meier had already swung the Tiger to the left, angling the armour for maximum effect, at the moment the 76.2mm Zis-3 fired. The simple act had saved them all as the Soviet weapon was capable enough at that range.
Wintzinger sprayed the location with MG rounds but the Soviet gunners held fast to their task, and the AT gun spoke again.
Another hit, and this time ‘Lohengrin’ was hurt.
The solid shot struck the front of the vehicle on the corner of the lower hull and angled off into the offside drive sprocket.
None of the crew needed to be told that the metallic sound that assailed them was the track separating and unravelling.
Jarome’s shot went high and wide as the Tiger stuttered and slewed before Meier caught the unexpected motion.
The hull MG plucked one member of the Soviet crew from his position as the man leant outwards to properly observe the damage to the enemy leviathan.
The gun commander, seeing the loader fall, stooped down to pick up the dropped shell, cursing the dead boy for his stupidity and the delay it would cause.
Jarome fired again, and again he missed the target, as a heavy artillery shell rocked the fifty-six tons of disabled tank.
The 88mm shell struck the Red Army gun commander in the lower throat, transforming the upper part of his body into flying mincemeat in a micro-second, but with insufficient contact to cause the shell to explode, or even interrupt its journey to somewhere many metres beyond.
The AT gun remained unloaded as the crew abandoned it, most of them carrying some piece of their gun commander on their skin or clothing as they ran screaming from the field.
Wintzinger and Jarome, firing short bursts, mopped them up in short order, the latter’s weapon falling silent as he reached for more ammunition.
“Infantry! Close in! Driver, slew left!”
Meier acted instantly, the tank surging on one track and slewing to the left side.
“Scheisse!”
Wintzinger swore as his machine-gun remained silent, the instant manoeuvre having sent the new ammo bag flying from his grasp.
Meier took one look across the tank and acted without a second thought, pushing up on his hatch with one hand as he went for his holster with the other.
Three Soviet soldiers were closing in on the Tiger, two of whom carried large circular mines of a type all too familiar to the Legion’s German tankers.
The Walther P-38 took down the leading figure, as two bullets smashed the wind from his lungs and sent him rolling in the snow.
The second figure, free from the encumbrance of a Teller mine, sent a burst at Meier, off-target, but close enough to cause the driver to flinch and miss his shots in turn.
Last in line, the other mine-equipped soldier leapt sideways and disappeared from sight.
“Missed two... and the bastards are close in, near side!”
“Commander out!”
Köster acted on instinct, snatching the MP-40 in the same series of movements that drove him out of the cupola and rolling onto the rear engine compartment.
Behind him, a hand emerged from the turret and drew the hatch closed.
An observer might have found the act harsh, but standing orders and self-preservation dictated that hatches would be clipped down if infantry swarmed near the tank.
Unable to see either of the two Russians, Köster dropped off the rear of ‘Lohengrin’, where he found one immediately, lying underneath the tank, cradling the teller mine in his arms.
The MP-40 rattled and Köster scrabbled under the Tiger to drag the mine clear.
In an instant his world transformed from the whiteness of snow to the whiteness of a close detonation, as something unforgiving struck the side of the angled tank.
The force of the explosion threw his head hard against the rearmost steel road wheel and he was momentarily stunned.
Above him, a fire had started in the Tiger’s engine compartment.
Inside ‘Lohengrin’, Meier took command, ordering the others to sit tight and fight the tank as best they could.
Pulling himself out of the driver’s hatch, he moved at record speed, helped by the searching pings of bullets as Soviet infantry took more than a healthy interest in his actions.
Rolling behind a small drift of snow, Meier took in the scene, swiftly appreciating the danger of the untackled fire.
The turret was moving slowly, electrical traverse having been lost, its weight only shifted by the hand traverse mechanism. None the less, Jarome sought out the aggressor that had wounded them so badly.
The Tiger shuddered as the main gun launched another shell downrange.
Meier couldn’t see the end result, but the fact that the turret turned to seek other targets was a clear statement that, whatever it had been, it was now dead.
In his peripheral vision, he could see one of the Panzer IV’s smoking, its gun barrel at the sort of angle that indicated severe damage. His hearing picked up the crack of the other 75mm’s at work.
Failed by both those senses up close, it was the odour of his attacker that granted him the micro-second that saved his life.
He turned, just as the PPSh came lashing down on him, missing his head and smashing into his shoulder.
The brutal snap of his collar bone and his scream of agony as sharp bones pushed out through soft flesh were heard inside ‘Lohengrin’, even above the sounds of battle that overtook the inside of a tank in combat.
Rolling away as best he could, Meier’s eyes filled with tears of pain, making his vision go misty and imprecise, making his survival less likely as the Soviet soldier attacked again.
The Walther spoke, missing by a country mile, and the PPSh, redirected, smashed into Meier’s right hand, accompanied by more sounds of breaking bone.
Again Meier screamed in pain.
Lying prone in the snow, his right side battered and broken, he lashed out with his foot and caught the attacker on the left leg, the heavy boot perfectly connecting with the Soviet soldier’s kneecap.
This time, the howls of pain were not Meier’s.
The Russian rolled sideways, his fingers searching for a round magazine to fit in his weapon, determined to gun down the SS bastard who had wrecked his knee.
Meier hadn’t realised the sub-machine gun had no magazine, and quickly scrabbled left-handed for his dropped Walther.
It was a simple race, with life as the prize and death for the runner-up.
The Russian won as the big magazine slid into place and he levelled the PPSh.
Meier knew he had lost, even as his fingers found the
cold metal of his pistol.
The sub-machine gun rattled and Meier screamed in pure fear.
He screamed again as the riddled corpse of the dead Russian soldier dropped onto his legs.
A grinning Köster flopped in beside his driver and swapped the now empty MP-40 for the enemy weapon.
“Stop squealing like a fucking girl!”
Shock rolled over Meier instantly, his limbs shaking, his lips trembling, his bladder control lost.
“Scheisse, Klaus!”
He hadn’t appreciated how bad his friend had been hurt.
Instinctively, Köster looked towards ‘Lohengrin’ for support and immediately saw the gentle waft of smoke rising from the rear.
“Keep your head down, Klaus. Just going to put the fire out. I’ll be right back!”
Meier never heard a word of it, his mind fuddled with the excruciating pain of his injuries.
Köster moved gingerly onto the rear of the tank and rapped out a pattern of three and three on the circular hatch. It opened and a pistol was stuck in his face, behind which was the earnest face of Schultz.
“Klaus is wounded. Engine compartment’s on fire. Get Erwin to hit the auto extinguisher system, but I’m also tackling it.”
The growing smoke caused Koster to cough violently.
“You three have to sit tight and cover or we’ll lose our tank. Kapische?”
“I’ll leave the hatch unpinned, Oberscharfuhrer.”
Köster opened the large rear turret bin and fished out two tetrachloride extinguishers, one in the ambush colour the Tiger had once been painted in, the other a gaudy red, plus a pair of dirty asbestos gloves
The auto extinguisher system had been fired and the effect was immediate, allowing him to pull up the offside grilles, albeit gingerly, as they were extremely hot.
A few bullets pinged off ‘Lohengrin’s’ armour, those responsible immediately drawing angry fire from the machine-gunners, both in the Tiger and the advancing Panzer IV’s.
The fire had reduced to nothing more than oily smoke, but Köster waited to ensure it was no longer an issue before returning to Meier’s side.
