“What is happening?” Sasha attempted to make himself heard over the explosions as he stumbled with Igor away from the dugout.
“The Nazis are coming, the gas will kill us,” Igor yelled over the approaching explosions.
“Where are we going?”
“To the pillboxes, the concrete, we will be safe there. I saw gas masks.”
“Gas masks?”
Igor stopped and pointed at the dark clouds near the ground. “Gas,” he cried. “We will die if we stay here.”
He shuddered at the thought of gas, with the choking, the burning, and the slow, painful death. Sasha and Igor had watched others being trained on their use. It was believed the Germans would use gas in the first minutes of the assault and only those with masks would survive. Sasha and Igor were not among those, the sight or smell of smoke triggering fear. They began running in the direction of Slutsk.
II
May 10, 1940 05:15
Early morning flights, the sky red, then pink then yellow were Hans’ favorites. Any day that began with a dawn takeoff as the sun cleared the horizon was a good day. As he slid into the cockpit of his Stuka he had further reason for happiness. Today they would destroy the Red Air Force. Scanning the instrument panel he frowned at the oil pressure gauge. Hans tapped it, the needle moving slightly in the right direction. Close enough.
A noise from the rear cockpit threatened to chill his good mood. Sandmann was doing something, clumsy body seemingly never comfortable in the plane, earning the moniker the “Austrian oaf” from Oswald who fumed at his incompetence. He made the promise once the Reds were defeated he would locate a different rear gunner.
Sandmann’s pudgy face, cabbage sized head and clownish antics seemed to disqualify him from service; Oswald puzzled over how his rear gunner survived the rigorous Luftwaffe training regimen. He imagined Sandmann as a simple infantryman sent to charge into a machine gun nest, bulk providing protection to his comrades. Instead he manned Oswald’s rear gun which heightened his sense of vulnerability.
Hans shook Sandmann from his mind and refocused on the mission as they bumped along the grassy airstrip and gained height. Glancing out the windows left and right he was comforted by the sight of the other members of his Staffel of Stukas. The attack would be mounted by the entire Gruppe of 30 aircraft. A thousand meters above them, nine ME-109’s zig-zagged, and struggled to remain within formation with the lumbering Stukas. Upon reaching the airspace above Minsk, they would split up and attack two separate airfields.
Their target was a large airfield west of Minsk; their mission to destroy as many aircraft on the ground as possible. Once they had dropped their ordnance, they would return for another load of bombs under the veil of total surprise. Beneath Hans’ fuselage was a 250 kilo Speng Cylindrische SC-250 general purpose bomb while his wings carried another four 50 kilo bombs. Hans had plentiful ammunition for his two forward firing 7.92 mm Rheinmetall MG 17 machine guns. He was thrilled to return to the cockpit and confirm his destiny of flying combat missions.
Hans had the honor of leading his Gruppe into Soviet airspace as they attacked in Kettens of three aircraft. Mueller’s voice crackled over the radio as he reported the airfield in sight and Hans gave the signal for the Ketten to widen their spacing. He peered through the windscreen and noticed a clearing with several buildings five kilometers ahead. As they approached he saw they were hangars. “Here we go Sandmann,” he warned.
Minutes passed as the hangars came into focus and Hans nosed Jolanthe over into an 80 degree dive from 5,000 meters. It would take 30 seconds to reach the release height where he would drop his SC-250 bomb on the western-most hangar. Just beyond the hangars he noticed rows of stubby Polikarpov I-16s and a single figure running for one. Hans laughed, “Good Luck Ivan!”
He pressed the release button on his control column and the automatic recovery system in the tail sprung the elevator tab back, initiating the pull out. The SC-250 swung free right at the entrance to the target hangar.
The plan had the Stukas approach on a heading of 090 degrees then after release of their bomb, level off and clear the airfield. The Stukas turned north to 360 degrees then circled back for another pass. The destruction of Soviet aircraft was their primary objective. ME-109’s remained watchful above them, prepared to pounce on anything that managed to get aloft.
Hans leveled off at 2,000 meters and turned to 360 degrees. He formed up with Mueller and circled around for another attack. This run was started at a lower altitude, their dive less severe. Hans dropped his 50 kilo bombs on a row of I-16’s. One escaped from the line and was taxiing toward the runway, resembling a toy bouncing about, trying to gain speed. Hans bore down on it, aiming his 7.92 mm machine guns at the cockpit. One of its main gear struts collapsed and it spun to a stop.
A rush of pride ran through Hans at the fireballs below and the black smoke reaching into the sky. He could not imagine any of the 70 or so aircraft ever threatening from above. He keyed his mic and ordered the Staffel to return to Poland; their first sortie of the day successful, though their future missions would lack the element of surprise.
“Sandmann, did you see that crazy Ivan running to that little fighter?” Hans called to his gunner. “I think we actually got him on the second pass.”
Sandmann responded with a pitiful groan, his first combat mission ending with an emptied stomach and a ruined uniform. Even without enemy fighters dogging their mission, Sandmann’s nerves were raw as he cursed his uncle for securing his favorite nephew a spot in the prestigious Luftwaffe.
III
May 10, 1940 07:00
Rudi trained his binoculars on the Landsers of the 262nd Infantry Regiment as it stormed the paths cleared through the minefields by the attached engineers. While Landser could be applied to any member of the infantry, it was usually reserved for the lowest ranked soldiers in the army. Rudi understood the dangers faced by his comrades, thankful he was not among them while he urged them forward to the Russian lines.
The Landsers scurried across the open field, as the occasional flash of a flame thrower wielded by an engineer marked their progress. Guderian’s blitzkrieg tactics demanded the panzers smash through the enemy, but on this day Rudi and the others were waiting for the infantry supported by the engineers to break through the first echelon of the Stalin Line. Once the Russian front was breached, the panzers would sprint through the gap and spread through the enemy’s rear.
Rudi watched the progress of a platoon of new Sturmgeschutz G. IIIs from the motorized infantry regiment, the self-propelled infantry support machines were a point of contention among the panzer crews. The Stug III’s lacked a turret; its short 75 mm infantry gun located at the front of its hull. While firepower was important the crew sat more safely in the Stug III which sported double the armor of PzKpfw III. Its unusual design reduced its silhouette dramatically and rendered it a smaller target.
When the first Stug IIIs arrived at the 2nd Panzer division, Rudi crawled through it. The machine was more cramped than Helga and he wondered how the crew could breathe much less fight with the buttoned up hatches closed. Some of Rudi’s men sneered the Stug III’s crews were mere artillerymen lacking even the panzer crews’ black uniforms.
Rudi watched as the Stug IIIs, hatches buttoned, rumbled through the Russian defenses. Their 75 mm infantry guns blasted away at the Russian bunkers where Helga’s 37 mm cannon would barely chip the concrete. After thirty minutes the combination of infantry, engineers and self-propelled guns disappeared over the distant hill, their advance marked by the echo of explosions. Rudi’s voice blared over the intercom, “Not long boys.”
Schmidt barked over the radio. “Through the gap in the minefield marked by the engineers.” Corporal Braun rolled Helga behind Schmidt’s Panzer and they crossed the border into the Soviet Union.
IV
May 10, 1940 0715
Colonel Tarkenov and Major Kuznetsov fidgeted as they waited for Commissar Mogilov’s orders. The frown on the
commissar’s face reflected the chaos from above and below, the western sky lit by flashes of light, the rumble of artillery blasts shaking the earth. Tarkenov struggled to focus, as the previous evening’s revelries clouded his mind.
Tarkenov tried to delay their movement. “Comrade Mogilov we must contact Moscow and wait for orders.”
Mogilov yanked the fat Colonel by the collar, “This is a provocation intended to spark a war, and we must ensure the men do not take the offensive. You fat old woman, you will go with your men or suffer the consequences.”
Though rarely visiting his men Tarkenov doubted the peasant soldiers under his command would advance a single meter into Poland and followed the commissar’s order. “We will take the BT-5s as an escort, its command tank has a radio.”
Their first duty was finding Lieutenant Mikhail Pasekhov, the Ukrainian commander. An unwilling leader who saw his older brother killed while serving in the army, Pasekhov had forsaken his duties for the narcotic of alcohol. The trio, colonel, major and commissar, found a pale Pasekhov slumped before his BT-5U command tank, the machine’s center radio antenna was its most recognizable feature. Pasekhov’s uniform was the same one he had been wearing when the Colonel found the major passed out in a stairwell. It was damp from a nearby pool of urine and smeared Tarkenov’s hands when he shook the major.
Watching the scene, Mogilov’s ire bubbled over, his face crimson as he screamed at the disoriented lieutenant. “You will start these tanks and escort us to the command post,” He unhooked his pistol from its holster.
The lieutenant wobbled, words slurred as he explained his difficulties. “Comrade, the tanks are not ready. We have removed the tracks from the command tank, one of the tanks will not start and only one is fully operational.”
Tarkenov sensed the opportunity to deflect blame. “The BT-5 does not need tracks to drive. It can run on its road wheels.”
“We can drive the tanks Comrade Mogilov, but we must remain on the road. We cannot fight until we reassemble the tracks.”
Mogilov snatched the arm of a sergeant with a clean uniform. “Name.”
“Sergeant Blenkvin, Comrade Commissar.”
“Is what the Lieutenant says true?”
“Yes, Comrade -.”
“What Comrade Sergeant? Out with it.”
Blenkvin met Lieutenant Pasekhov’s gaze. “The tank that won’t start lacks petrol.”
Mogilov calmed. “I see.”
Pasekhov leaned to his left and vomited. A series of lights flashed in the west as the artillery barrage moved closer. The commissar flicked his cigarette at Pasekhov, who avoided it. As he regained his balance, Pasekhov glanced up to face Mogilov’s pistol, a single shot ending the discussion. The commissar turned on the sergeant. “Where is your command post? You are ordered to resist, but under no circumstances can you cross the border.”
“Immediately, Comrade,” replied a suddenly enthusiastic Blenkvin. He pointed randomly to one of the assembled men and then to a petrol tank near the small barracks, the only structure on the bivouac. “Fill the tanks.”
The soldiers raced to the petrol tank; their haste drawing a satisfied nod from Mogilov as he turned to the staff car, closely followed by Tarkenov who walked, head high and confidence bolstered. The commissar had found his soldier to blame, the colonel sliding around danger and the NKVD. As the tanks were filled with petrol, Sergeant Blenkvin led the column in the trackless BT-5U rumbling along the densely wooded road toward the advancing Germans. The staff car followed at a discreet distance; Mogilov perched on the edge of his seat, satisfied with their progress, and unaware of the ammunition shortages.
Tarkenov watched the scenery, lost for the moment in his next move. Mogilov had scapegoated one man; it was inevitable the colonel and the major would suffer the same fate. Tarkenov realized he would have to act before the commissar. Though the colonel rejected committing violence, survival made men reach beyond their normal.
V
May 10, 1940 0845
Sasha and Igor hugged the bottom of a shallow ditch. Pools of rain water dissolved into a stagnant and malodorous liquid in their faces. A slight breeze waved at their shirts while the fury of battle sounded all around them.
Igor turned, one eye peering over the edge and grunted. “We must stay here.”
“Stay?” Sasha squealed. “We have to get to the rear, where the big bunkers are.”
“The NKVD will shoot us.”
“Why? We’ve done nothing wrong. We don’t even have rifles.”
“They will kill us for fleeing the bunkers. When one runs, all run. We stay here.” Igor considered letting Sasha flee, the younger man a burden. Yet he hesitated to abandon the boy, Sasha’s youthful exuberance growing on the older man. “If we stay we have a better chance, if we leave we will die.”
The speed of the German hordes forced Sasha and Igor into a ditch carved by truck tracks. They were between casements, the terrain sloping behind them, the crest hiding machine gun emplacements protected by barbed wire. The machine guns fired intermittently at the advancing Germans, the decimated Russians, numbers cut in half by the bombardment, scurried to the rear.
Igor clawed at the earth, tossing some on his back. His clothes were stiffened by dried mud while the odor of stagnant water stirred his thirst and gnawed at his stomach. He knew Beria’s NKVD men would shoot them if they fled east, but fighting was not an option. They could only become part of the landscape as the battled raged around them, and when the Germans passed they could surrender. Igor knew he could survive whether under the Nazis or the communists.
A machine gun burped from the west, loud and close. Igor snatched at Sasha’s shoulder to calm him, his fingers wriggled, placing pressure on is head to remain in the ditch. Another burst of fire was followed by silence and Igor raised his head and looked.
He spotted a pair of Red Army machine guns from the bunkers barely 100 meters from their ditch. Machine Gun Bunker No 31’s outline was visible if one knew where to look; the Russians were covered by foliage, and so well camouflaged Sasha and Igor had not even noticed it in their dash for safety. The belching fire came from two of its three 7.62mm Maxim Model 1910 machine guns forcing the German infantry to take cover.
A standoff seemed interminable, the occasional burst of fire from the west followed by frantic orders in German as they sought to maneuver around obstacles. Sasha squirmed, “I need water, we must move.”
Igor wrapped his fingers around the boy’s throat. “Silence.”
There was popping around them followed by a whistle. Mortar shells exploded in front of the machine gun bunker, producing clouds of thick smoke. The Germans came with the infantry and provided covering fire for the advancing engineers. Blinded by the smoke, the Russians fired their Maxims indiscriminately.
Igor shifted for a better view of the engineers, satchel charges over their shoulders as they followed the flamethrower. Igor froze as a German approached, nozzle pointed at him, path destined to take him over the ditch and the two Russians. He applied pressure to Sasha’s shoulder conveying danger and the need for silence. A round of gunfire forced the engineers to change their path, 20 meters from the Russians.
The German engineers focused on the emplacements rather than the ditches behind them. Igor turned onto his back, left eye able to catch sight of the Germans positioning charges at the bunker’s rear entrance. An explosion was followed by a barrage of grenades and a burst of fire that eliminated all resistance.
The Germans approached the second casement as a bizarrely shaped tank rumbled close, unaffected by the ineffectual Russian fire. Igor had seen tanks with their guns protruding from a turret, the German machine lacking the metal frame popular with Russian tanks. An antitank gun scored a direct hit, but the shell bounced off the machine’s frontal armor. The German return fire slammed the casement from 200 meters. The high explosive shell detonated on the side of the casement’s recessed gun port but only gouged a sliver from the concrete. The Russian gun fi
red high, the German machine popped smoke and shuddered to a halt; the sound of grinding gears marking its reversal of course. It slid from the dirt track, underbelly exposed; the Russian gun pierced the underside of the machine, as black smoke and fire ensured no survivors.
Igor heard the German engineers cursing and understood the angry voices and determined expressions meant more Russians would die. The engineers scurried down the slope, a combination of explosive charges, grenades and the flamethrowers ending the fight. Igor expected the Germans to move east but the engineers remained to smoke and talk amidst the smoldering remains of the German machine. Igor waited for the remaining Russian casements to open fire on the vulnerable Germans, but the casements remained silent, the soldiers inside either dead or racing toward Slutsk.
Igor and Sasha witnessed only a smart part of a battlefront that extended for several hundred kilometers. The fight for Machine Gun Bunker No. 31, west of Slutsk was repeated scores of times though with nearly identical results: the Germans breaking the backs of the defender. They left dead Russians while chasing fleeing Red Army soldiers as they sought safety far to the east. Igor and Sasha witnessed the dying throes of the Stalin Line, the vaunted defense emplacements that proved no match for the Germans.
Igor and Sasha remained in the ditch listening to the Germans celebrate. Any movement would attract attention, which forced them to remain until the sun dropped. He hoped the Germans would pass them so they could continue toward Barysaw.
20
May 10 1940 1300
Rudi’s platoon’s initial push across the Soviet border had halted. They spent an idle morning and afternoon waiting for the infantry to break through the Stalin Line. Rudi sighed – the hurry up and wait cliché was true of all armies.
At 1400 Schmidt arrived to find the infantry had silenced many but not all of the gun emplacements. Rudi knew fixed gun positions were dangerous when the panzers were static. Movement protected them better than armor and Schmidt’s orders rang in his ear. “Do not stop for anything. We must get through the fixed defenses before dark!”
French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1) Page 28
