by Sven Hassel
‘Beg to report, sir. I may not allow this vehicle out of my charge without written orders from Regimental HQ, sir,’roars Helmer, saluting again. ‘But, sir, if the adjutant, sir, will throw Obergefreiter Porta out of the vehicle, sir, or declare him to have been released, sir, then I can drive the adjutant back to HQ, sir.’
After thinking the matter over for a while the adjutant declares Porta temporarily released. He is just about to settle down in his seat in the Kübel again, when something long and black flashes past him and lands with a thump on the back seat. It is Ulrich who has found Porta again, and now sits proudly beside him on the back seat.
The adjutant sways, and sinks down, with a gurgle, into the mud alongside the Kübel.
‘Is he dead?’ asks Helmer uncaringly, stretching his neck.
‘My God, man, you’ll soon have a job just keeping count of all the heart attacks your cat‘s been the cause of!’
‘Let‘s pick him up,’ decides Porta, ‘and push off home to HQ. The CO. wants to talk to Ulrich and me.’
There is great alarm and confusion in HQ office when Porta and Ulrich march through it. Three clerks have a nervous breakdown, when the panther shows them its long fangs.
‘What in the devil’s name makes you tick, Porta?’ asks Oberst Hinka, in a quiet, threatening, voice, when Porta clicks his heels in front of the chart-table. ‘Do you know what the book of animals tells us about that beast you have acquired? It is a killer. It kills every living thing it comes in the neighbourhood of! And it kills, because it likes to kill!’
‘Beg to state, sir, the book’s full of lies from beginning to end. Ulrich‘s gentle as a lamb, sir. Just playful!’
‘I don’t want to have any more trouble with you, Porta. The panther must go! And if it doesn’t go quickly, you’ll go — in front of a courtmartial. How I’m going to be able to save your hide this time I can’t for the life of me think, but, mark my words, this is the very last time I’m going to help you. My patience is finally at an end. Get out of here, and be good enough to take that black monster with you!’
Porta crashes his heels together, salutes, and steps backwards out of the door, together with Ulrich.
‘By the way, where’s Ulrich got to?’ asks Helmer, when we run across him one day, at the Charkow goods station where we are picking up new Tiger tanks.
‘Emigrated to Sweden,’ says Porta sadly. ‘He’d had enough of the German dictatorship.’
‘To Sweden?’ asks Helmer, his mouth falling open. ‘A panther can’t go off to Sweden just like that!’
‘If you know the ropes he can,’ answers Porta. ‘He took a hospital train from here to Libau. There he went on board a Swedish boat. He is, most likely, strutting round Stockholm now enjoying the lights in the shop windows. He may even have got himself a new fur coat, with spots on, instead of the black one he had. If the Gestapo’s still after him a bit of camouflage wouldn’t come amiss.’
If it is necessary to save time, and it almost always is, then we drop a thousand, or three thousand, bombs on a city which is delaying us, and leave only a heap of rubble behind. We cannot afford to pity the civilian population. Our task is to press forward and destroy the enemy as quickly as possible. War is war, and it is unmerciful.
General Bradley
A gaggle of geese waddles talkatively across the dusty square. They stretch their necks, and flap their wings. Peace and quiet pervades the whole place.
‘This hole’s deserted,’ says the section leader.
‘Hang on a minute,’ says the tank-man. ‘You never know with Ivan.’
The section’s four tanks have been waiting, prepared to attack, for an hour. There is something about the village they do not like, but the only sign of life, in the course of that hour, has been the cackling geese.
‘We got to go in,’ says the section leader. He makes a signal to the other three tanks. ‘But we’ll go in from the river. The bridge could be mined, and who want’s to go to heaven on the top of a blast wave?’
They roar across the river, rock up the opposite bank, knocking down a couple of mud huts, and stop in the middle of the village square.
The geese cackle. An aggressive gander rushes at the tanks, hissing and flapping its wings. Everything is quiet.. Not a treacherous sound.
‘Driver and turret gunner stay in the car,’ orders the section leader. ‘The rest out! , We could use some of these geese!’
Turret flaps fly open. With roars of laughter, the tank crews jump down and run at top speed after the cackling geese. One of them has just caught a goose, when a machine-gun opens up, spraying the square with bullets. In a moment, it resembles a slaughterhouse yard Tankmen are thrown about amongst the frightened geese. Two badly wounded men try to crawl back towards their vehicles.
Russian soldiers stream from the huts. Grenades explode, turret hatches bang shut. Guns roar, and machine-guns snarl.
Explosive charges are thrown between the tracks of the tanks, rendering them unmanoeuverable. Mines are thrown up under the turrets. In the space of a few minutes the four tanks are the centre of an exploding, hellish sea of flame.
Shortly afterwards the wrecked tanks are found by an advancing Panzer Regiment. A brief intermezzo in a summer’s day of war.
1See THE BLOODY ROAD TO DEATH
2Nickname for Military Police
8
The Tigers
‘You lot‘ll soon be where the shit’s flyin’,’shouts Chief Mechanic Wolf, who is risking his precious skin for once, close behind the front.‘When I hear you’ve got yourself grilled, in a few days time, my good Porta, I’m goin’ to get stewed as a newt on the very best French champagne.’
‘You’ve got mud between your ears, you great shit,’ hisses Porta, from down inside the Tiger tank’s engine.
‘Mind that sewing-machine of yours doesn’t hit you on the head,’ Wolf warns him with an anticipatory grin as the heavy Tiger engine is swung up and out of the tank.
As he says the words the wire snaps, and the motor falls, pinning sour-faced Werkmeister Brandt’s arm beneath it. It takes some time to raise it and get the white-faced man’s arm free. His hand has been crushed.
We bandage him up crudely and lay him in the shade of some fir trees. He begs for a doctor, but there is no doctor available, nor even a medical orderly. He will have to wait until a supplies waggon can take him back to the depot.
One of the mechanics asks Wolf to take the hurt man back with him.
‘You must have nuts’n bolts where your brains ought to be,’ Wolf roars with laughter. ‘Think I’m goin’ to have my waggon mucked up by a bloody mechanic?’
When a lorry finally arrives the Werkmeister is already dead from loss of blood.
Over on our right Barcelona’s Tiger roars forward. The little Legionnaire rattles off on our left, his tank’s long 88 mm gun-muzzle angling towards the sky.
‘2. Section, battle stations,’ orders the Old Man over the radio. ‘Guns loaded and safe!’
Tiny opens the ammunition lockers, ready to load quickly when the Old Man commences giving fire orders. On his right he has yellow-tipped H.E., on his left black-tipped armour-piercing. Behind him hang blue-nosed S-shells. It is important that the right ammunition be chosen — and used. It can be a catastrophe for both vehicle and crew if the loader makes a blunder.
‘Panzer, Marsch, Marsch,’ orders the Company commander, Oberleutnant Löwe.
In wide, arrow-head formation the Tigers roar forward, crushing everything in their path.
A spear of flame shouts from the ruins of a house. A shell hits the turret, glances off, and ricochets vertically into the air.
‘Dead ahead. Enemy anti-tank position. Turret one o’clock,’ orders the Old Man. ‘Panzer halt. Load H.E.!’
‘Breach released,’ echoes Tiny, and pushes a yellow-tipped shell into the firing chamber.
A deafening roar splits the awakening morning and the anti-tank gun is thrown up into the air, together with the bloody re
mnants of its crew.
‘Close turrets, Panzer Marsch,’ orders the Old Man.
The Tiger’s 700 horses roar, and with ringing tracks we rattle down through the village. Hens flutter, fearfully, up into the air.
A party of Russian soldiers rushes madly towards cover in the undergrowth. A stream of tracer, from the turret-M.G., hastens after them, catches them and smashes them down into the dust of the road. They scream, and glare in terror at the oncoming tanks. Broad tracks crush them into the substance of the roadway.
We roar across a wide open place, where laundry is hanging to dry. Underclothing, sheets and towels festoon our vehicles’ turrets and guns, like flags waving on May Day.
‘It’ll be in PRAVDA tomorrow. German Panzer troops loot Russian washing,’ grins Porta, pressing his foot down on the accelerator. ‘Damn their eyes,’ he shouts, ‘I can’t see a thing. There’s a pair of blue drawers hanging down in front of my viewing-slit.’ With a loud clang the tank goes down into a anti-tank trench.
‘What the hell are you up to?’ scolds the Old Man.
‘I said I couldn’t see anything,’ Porta defends himself. ‘There’s a pair of Commie drawers blocking me view! What a diversity of weapons these Russians do use! Why have we no plan of action ready for when the neighbours bombard us with women’s drawers? A circular from Sally’s paper factory is what we need!’
The radio buzzes nastily. The Old Man answers it.
‘What the devil are you doing, Beier,’ roars the Company commander impatiently. ‘Come up out of that hole, dammit, or you’ll get yourself a court-martial! You must not stop!’
‘Got nothing but shit in their heads, every single one of ’em,’ shouts Porta, irritably. He rocks and twists the tank round on its tracks in an attempt to get the Tiger out of the tank-trap. It takes the aid of another tank to get the 68 tons of metal up out of the hole.
In the twenty minutes we have been stuck, the whole battle-scene has changed. Russian tanks swarm forward, also in arrowhead formation.
We stop, fire, send shells into countless anti-tank positions, roll over infantry units, grind foxholes closed, and crush the men hiding in them.
The enemy tanks are still almost 2,000 yards away. They are not dangerous to us until the range closes to 800 yards, while we can hit them at 1800 yards. Our long-barrelled 88 mm tank guns, with their fantastically high muzzle velocity and flat angle of fire, can wreck any enemy tank.
Both Tiger companies form up in one great arrowhead and literally shower shells onto the advancing Russian armour.
In a moment the steppe has become one great tank graveyard. The clear, pleasant summer’s day is darkened by oily, black clouds of smoke rising from countless burning tanks. It seems, though, as if we have taught the Russians something. At breakneck speed they race fearlessly forward, attempting to get inside their 800 yard range limit and use their 76 mm guns.
‘Keep them at a distance,’ orders the Company commander over the radio. ‘Spread out! Out to the flanks!’
The heat inside the tank becomes insupportable. Sweat runs from us in rivers, and we are all as black in the face as Albert. Only our eye-balls and our teeth gleam white.
A T-34 flies up over a mound, and lands, with an ear-splitting crash in a quarry. It is as if it were trying to force its way down into the earth. The next second an armour-piercing shell bores its way through the tank’s 60 mm thick front armour. The turret flips over and its gun-muzzle goes down between two large rocks.
A company of heavy, 57 ton, KW-2’s advances in a line and halts on the edge of the forest. Gouts of flame come from the muzzles of their 150 mm guns.
Barcelona’s Tiger, which is standing slightly behind us, seems to bulge out, like a balloon blown up too hard, and explodes in a giant ball of fire. Three of its four-man crew roll desperately around on the ground in an attempt to extinguish the flames which dance gaily on their uniforms.
The Legionnaire’s Tiger swings round to go to their assistance.
Before the Old Man can stop him Tiny is out of the turret and dashing towards the burning tank. He swings Barcelona up onto his shoulder, like an empty sack, and sprints back with him. Albert comes limping after them, his face ashen with fright.
Quickly we help them in through the hatches. Tiny waves, and runs back to get the turret gunner, who has had his left arm torn off.
Some Russian infantry come down at a run from the heights. Bullets whistle and buzz around Tiny, who is galloping along with the wounded tankman over his shoulder.
I pull myself up from the turret, swing the air target M.G. round and open fire on the Russians.
Sweating and cursing Tiny crawls up on the tank, and forces himself through the side-hatch. A shell splinter gouges a long channel in one side of his face. Blood spurts over the gun and drips down on Heide.
‘Fuckin’ Commie ’oresons,’ curses Tiny, smashing the hatch-way shut.
My eyes are glued to the periscope sight. Three hundred yards away a KW-2 is taking aim at us. I stare, literally, straight into the barrel of its enormous gun.
‘Tank attack,’ I scream, in terror. And, at the very second Tiny shouts: ‘Gun clear.’ I bring my foot down on the firing pedal. With a sharp crack the shell leaves the gun and penetrates the front armour of the KW-2. The high turret is torn from its mounting ring, and falls alongside the tank, which is already on fire. A long lance of flame shoots up from it. Two burning tank soldiers seem to balance on the tip of the flame.
One of our Tiger’s goes up in a volcano of fire. None of the crew manage to escape. If one has never seen it, it is impossible to imagine the sight, when 102 H.E. and armour-piercing shells, 6,000 machine-gun bullets and 800 litres of fuel all go off together.
Afterwards it seems as if a storm of flame has burned off the terrain for many yards around the fire centre. Vegetation, houses, everything above the surface of the ground has disappeared, leaving no trace. Pieces of the tank are spread out over a huge area, and not a shred is left of the five-man crew.
Continually we stop and fire. Shell after shell pierces enemy tanks and destroys them. Six hours of fanatical battle has given the regiment 116 hits. Our company has 29 of these. That evening 27. Panzer Regiment is named in Army Orders. All the officers and Julius Heide, strut around lapping up the praise. The rest of us would have preferred a bowl of mashed potatoes with diced pork. But Julius Heide’s disappointment is endless when he finds that there is no Iron Cross, First Class for him. The regiment gets only two, and these are hung on two Leutnants who are short of them.
Porta is so large-minded he offers to give Heide his own Iron Cross.
‘What use would it be, without the paper that goes with it?’ Heide whines, miserably.
‘If it’s that bit of paper you’re worrying about,’ laughs Tiny, ‘I can soon get you that! Sally’s sittin’ there in the War Ministry, like some kind of minister, and ’as got all sorts of pieces of paper. Piece of paper’n a rubber stamp’s nothin’ to ’im!’
‘You filthy psychopath,’ spits Heide, contemptuously. ‘D’you think I’d dream of wearing a medal I wasn’t entitled to?’
‘Dry those big, blue eyes, now, Julius,’ Porta comforts him. ‘This world war’s not over yet, and one fine day it’ll be your turn. Just keep on being a good, brave German soldier, and Uncle Adolf’ll give even you a cunt-magnet to hang on your best suit.’
‘Panzer Ma-a-a-a-rsch,’ rasps over the radio.
‘2. Section, mount,’ orders the Old Man, and edges his way through the turret hatch.
We inspect weapons, ease springs, and place our pistols in our uniform breast pockets. They are easier to get at there when you are in a hurry. Usually your pistol has hardly cleared a regulation holster before you are dead.
The Old Man swings his arm in a circle, the signal to start engines. With a thunderous roar, the twelve-cylindered, 700 H.P. Maibachs come to life.
A whole pack of T-34’s comes from the maize fields. They move forward at a great pa
ce, shooting as they go.
‘Stupid waste of ammunition,’ snarls Heide, condemnatorily. He cannot bear such undisciplined waste. ‘They must, in hell’s name, have learnt to stop before they fire! Ought to be court-martialled, the half-trained idiots!’
‘I wouldn’t stop for a bloody second, if I was sitting in one of those “Tea rooms”,’ declares Porta. ‘They need another 200 yards before they can even scratch our paint, while we can blow them off the face of the earth easy as scratchin’ our arses! They’re banging away to try and frighten us, and maybe some will be frightened!’
‘It’s what’s called psychological warfare, that is,’ says Tiny, importantly. ‘They used to talk a lot about that when I was at the ammo’ place at Bamberg. We used to sod around with little yellow tins what made a bang as’d stop a bloke both shittin’ an yawnin’. Psychology they said it was called. You drop the tin, it goes off “Bang!”, an’ there stands the enemy gapin’ at you an’ you’ve got plenty of time to pull your shooter’n knock ’im off!’
‘2. Section, swing right, broad arrowhead,’ shrills Oberleutnant Löwe’s voice on the communicator.
As if on a string 2. Section’s four Tigers swing right and go into formation. There is deafening report, and a tongue of flame several yards long spits from the thick growth of young trees at the edge of the forest.
‘150 mm Anti-tank gun, straight ahead, 300 yards,’ screams the Old Man in horror, ducking involuntarily below the commander’s dome.
I find it immediately in the periscope sight, and spin the fine-sighting hand wheel. It is a low, broad colossus of a gun, its muzzle aimed straight at us.
‘Left,’ roars the Old Man, excitedly. ‘Porta! Left, goddammit! He’ll smash us!’
‘Like hell he will,’ grins Porta, carelessly. ‘Hang on to your piles, Old Un!’
Instead of turning left Porta stamps the accelerator down all the way, and goes straight for the heavy self-propelled gun at breakneck speed.
‘Have you gone mad?’ protests the Old Man, terrified. ‘Stop man, in hell’s name! You’ll kill us all!’
