by Colin Gee
The darkness of a huge bruise was already spreading around Stelmakh’s face.
Ferensky had shaken himself out of the stupor induced by the enemy shells, and stuck his head out of his hatch.
What greeted him was a scene of horror.
Another of the IS-IIIs had been knocked out, this time very dramatically so, and its turret lay some yards away from the spectacularly burning hull.
The remaining two tanks were still resisting but their positions were now exposed, meaning that the enemy tanks were making hits, although the heavy armour of the IS tanks resisted well.
Ferensky’s mind registered a sound from another time, a growing screaming wall of sound that he had not heard for many a month.
Automatically he looked to the sky and there it was.
A Stuka.
And another following it.
And another following that.
The screaming intensified as the six dive bombers hurtled down.
The leading aircraft released its bomb, the crutch shepherding it away from the propeller, and the Junkers-87-D started to pull out of its dive.
The 250kg bomb missed its target, but it was close enough to lift the tank up on one side.
Ferensky watched with a fascinated detachment as the offside track of the heavy tank lifted a couple of feet, hung there for the briefest of moments, and then crashed back down to earth again.
He mused what that had done to the boys inside, but the question became immaterial within a few seconds, as the second bomb struck the engine compartment, transforming many thousands of roubles worth of state property into worthless scrap in a millisecond.
The other IS-III crew knew they had no chance, but it didn’t stop them from trying.
In actual fact, they evaded the falling bombs successfully, moving skilfully away, whilst keeping their armour towards the Jaguars.
However, two enemy gunners anticipated a turn, and both fired a telling shot.
On Height 299, the Pak 43 gunner sent his shell towards the manoeuvring IS-III, as did von Hardegen’s gunner, whose 75mm shell arrived a split second before the heavier AT round.
Both penetrated, and both would have been enough in their own right, but together, they dramatically destroyed the tank and her crew.
The DRH tanks pressed forward, seeing the way open.
Between the two tank forces, men of the Red Army’s 5th Motorcycle Regiment, long since parted from their vehicles and employed as infantry, rose from their concealed positions, not to fight, but to surrender.
Europa’s tank men had little cause or inclination to take prisoners, and many hull machine guns chattered, knocking the surrendering men back into the holes from which they had emerged.
The motorcycle soldiers dropped back into cover and, without exception, decided to hide rather than fight.
Fürth ordered a company of the sturm-grenadiers to move forward and ferret them out.
They were also similarly disinclined to take prisoners and the eventual survivors of the motorcycle unit were few in number.
Von Hardegen ordered Fürth to resume the attack on Trendelburg, leaving a platoon of Third Company to screen the flank, and to take the detached platoon from First Company under his direct command on the west side of the Diemel.
More aircraft were arriving, and some engaged the tanks that were killing his men south of Height 233.
Despite the fact that his command had taken a whipping from the unsuspected enemy heavy tanks, von Hardegen understood that he could still proceed with his attack successfully, although Third Company had taken a severe beating.
With the help of the DRL, the Soviet tanks were overcome, and a sharp assault on height 233 was successful, with few men lost.
At Trendelburg, the double attack enveloped the town, although First Company, now light a platoon, had to move more carefully than was planned.
A short but bitter fight ensued, as the defenders, artillerymen from the 30th Guards Gun Brigade without their guns, fought tooth and nail for every building.
The men of the panzer-grenadier battalion soon learned to bring up one of the Jaguars, using the 88mm gun to more than level the playing field.
Many points of resistance were simply wiped out by high-explosive, until the message got through, and many of the artillerymen started to surrender.
The sturm grenadiers only met brief resistance on the Stammen heights, but it was enough to seriously wound their long time regimental commander, Oberstleutnant Ernst Kaether.
The commander and staff of 1st Mechanised Corps surrendered far too willingly for the tastes of some of the survivors of the artillerymen who had tried to defend Trendelburg.
Time revealed that the commander and his immediate staff had deliberately contrived the circumstances that led to their capture, using the dismounted artillery crews as sacrificial lambs, although, in their haste to escape the dreadful conditions prevalent in the Red Army, they had not realised that the 6th GIBTR was at hand.
Days later, a guard at the temporary prisoner camp, set up just outside nearby Arolsen, casually informed a German-speaking artillery sergeant of the circumstances surrounding the fight and surrender at Trendelburg.
By prior arrangement, the camp guards simply watched on as vengeful motorcycle and artillery troops beat many of their mechanised corps’ comrades to death.
None of whom were even remotely responsible for the betrayal.
1607 hrs, Thursday, 15th August 1946, Height 299, Trendelburg, Germany.
Von Hardegen completed his discussion with the infantry commander; a relaxed affair over coffee.
The main topic of discussion was air power, and how having on their side for once made life a lot easier, much easier than it had been in the difficult last months of the previous war.
Kuno von Hardegen was happy to leave the mopping up to Fürth whilst his crew worked on getting his command tank moving.
Occasionally, his eyes would be drawn to the sound of an explosion, as something in one of the burning vehicles succumbed to the attentions of internal fire.
A Feldwebel ran up and reported to the Panzerjager Captain, having first deferred to Europa’s commander.
“We have a visitor, Herr Oberst.”
A brand new command halftrack, led and flanked by four American jeeps, bounded up the slope and pulled up short of the position occupied by the two officers.
The rear doors opened and disgorged an impressive military figure and three aides. The two officers came to attention and saluted the battlegroup commander, Major General Hyacinth Graf Strachwitz von Gross-Zauche und Camminetz.
He returned the salute.
“Oberst von Hardegen…Hauptmann Zander, good to see you both again.”
He held out his arm to the Europa’s commander.
“Kuno, come walk with me.”
The two moved away, heading towards von Hardegen’s tank, discussing the successes and failures of the day’s battle as they walked.
1611 hrs, Thursday, 15th August 1946, 450 metres south of Deisel, Germany.
The pain was extreme, but Stelmakh still managed to direct his crew.
The tank had refused to start, and Stepanov was nose down in the engine compartment trying to find the problem, aided by Kalinov, who claimed some mechanical knowledge.
The tree that had arrested their reversing manoeuvre now helped greatly in saving their lives, its thick leaves shrouding the two men at work on the back of the heavy tank.
Ferensky had slowly and carefully pulled some more foliage down onto the turret, concealing the hatches, from which he and Stelmakh kept watch.
The main enemy force had long since moved into Trendelburg, but a group of enemy infantry was still to be found within the Soviet infantry positions that had long since been cleared of motorcycle troops.
Stelmakh debated the issue.
Starting the tank would warn the enemy infantry who, in turn, would bring down artillery and call for the enemy tanks’ return.
He did not consider surrender.
He did not consider waiting until dark claimed the battlefield.
“So why aren’t we waiting until night, Comrade Kapitan?”
In a stuttering and clearly painful way, Stelmakh explained his thinking.
How the regimental fuel reserve was located just north of Deisel, at the express command of their now-deceased leader, rather than filling their hungry fuel tanks.
How he didn’t expect it to be there for much longer, especially if the enemy were pushing forward.
How without it they had no chance to get back to their own lines.
Ferensky understood, sort of, and waved his commander to silence.
“I get it, Comrade Kapitan. So we get one bite at this, and one bite only.”
Stelmakh nodded painfully and then a distant noise caused his eyes to narrow.
A group of enemy vehicles sped across the high ground, occasionally dropping from view within its undulating folds.
Stelmakh turned to observe the two men head down in the engine compartment, straining his ears to hear the conversation.
“… not an expert, Comrade Driver, but I’d say that this bit should attach to something.”
“Ha ha fucking ha. Have you just pulled that off?”
“Nope… it was off all by itself.”
“No way, can’t be… I’d have seen it straight away.”
“Well, you didn’t, cos it was.”
The squabble was brought to an end by a hand slapping on the tank’s turret armour.
Stelmakh said nothing, but they still got the message.
Quickly connecting up the wiring loom, Stepanov and Kalinov gently placed the grilles back in position, before sliding back up to the turret.
Kalinov, grinning from ear to ear, dropped back into the turret, having given Stepanov a look of professional disdain.
“Comrade Kapitan… I missed it. Simple wiring probl…”
Stelmakh held up his hand, cutting the driver short.
His eyes made the enquiry.
“Yes, I’m sure we’ll start first time, Comrade Kapitan.”
Stelmakh controlled his swollen and bruised mouth well enough to speak clearly.
“Good, very good. Get ready. You remember the route?”
“Yes, Comrade Kapitan.”
Stepanov carefully slid across the top of the turret, checked the nearby infantry positions, and slid feet first into his position.
“Crew, standby by.”
“Comrade Kapitan.”
Ferensky extended an arm, pointing at the object of his concern.
A quick look through the binoculars and Stelmakh’s mind was made up.
“Get ready and make it count, Yuri.”
“We’ve only got solid or HE now.”
“Make it count then, Yuri.”
Stelmakh felt no pain as his mind’s resources were drawn to concentrate on timing his move to perfection.
He watched the target move across his front, right to left, spared a look at the infantry positions, and another look for objective Sem, and then back again to the moving vehicle.
“Yuri?”
“I’m on it, Comrade Kapitan.”
“Onufriy?”
“Finger on the button, Comrade Kapitan.”
“Start when we fire.”
“Yes.”
“Yuri?”
“On target. Ready.”
Stelmakh watched and waited for the perfect moment.
“Fire!”
1631 hrs, Thursday, 15th August 1946, Route 763, Trendelburg, Germany.
The armour piercing shell struck the Panther at the join of turret and hull, penetrating with ease.
It failed to explode, but caused severe damage to the workings of the gun and turret, before deflecting down into the front of the tank, moving through the hull gunner, and coming to rest in the transmission.
The smell of blood and tortured metal filled the driver’s nostrils and, without orders, he pushed himself up and out of the hatch.
As his ears recovered, he realised the sound that assaulted his ears was that of a man screaming.
A horrified look revealed Kuno von Hardegen stood erect in the turret, but screaming as if mortally wounded.
Another sharp crack marked some large weapon firing, and the driver squealed in fear, expecting another Soviet shell to arrive.
But it was not aimed at him, and he pulled himself back to reality.
The driver hopped up onto the turret roof and took von Hardegen around the shoulders, intent on pulling his commander out of the smoking wreck.
He overbalanced and fell backwards onto the engine grill, unprepared for the lack of weight, as only the top half of his colonel came out of the tank, the lower portion having been severed by the shell.
Von Hardegen let out a single piercing scream… a long scream… a scream revealing the highest level of suffering.
The driver brought up everything his stomach contained, fainted, and toppled off the rear of the Panther.
Von Hardegen started a different cycle of agony, as the hot engine covers added to his extremis, and burnt into the flesh of his shoulders and buttocks, roasting the pieces of tattered flesh and bone that had once been his thighs and groin.
Whilst some of the sturm-grenadiers sought out the Panther’s destroyer, a few hardy men ran towards the Panther, intent on offering what help they could.
A Leutnant climbed up on the rear, and also brought up the contents of his stomach. Despite his long years of service, he was unprepared for the horror that lay on the Panther’s engine grilles.
The Panzer Oberst had no legs, the shell having struck him precisely on the left hip joint and gone through his body, exiting three inches below his right hip joint, and wiping out everything in between.
Blood, urine, faeces, all were mixed in the liquid that seeped from every part of his ruined body.
The next man up was an old Stabsgefreiter, a senior corporal, a man who did the only thing that could be done.
The bullet blew the back of Kuno von Hardegen’s head off, bringing him immediate relief.
The Leutnant, dry retching by now, his stomach emptied, controlled himself long enough to accept back the Luger that the Stabsgefreiter had snatched from his hand.
“Thank you, Poppelmeyer. Thank you… from him.”
The old soldier nodded and dropped off the back of the burning tank, picked up the unconscious driver and carried him off to the infantry positions.
As soon as the big gun barked, Stepanov hit the ignition button and the diesel roared into life; ‘Krasniy Suka’ lurched forward immediately.
Stelmakh had agreed the route with Stepanov so he could concentrate on other matters, such as the 12.7mm machine-gun, with which he discouraged the enemy infantry from becoming bold.
Not for the first time, the IS-III’s co-axial weapon had been knocked out, the hit on the mantlet having damaged the barrel.
He remembered the last time it had happened.
Stelmakh dropped into the tank to get another box of ammunition as an enemy shell noisily carried away the 12.7mm. A moment of terror washed over him, and translated itself into a weakening of his bladder and, for the first time for a long time, he wet his trousers.
A few bullets spanged off the armour, as some more resilient members of the sturm-grenadiers took on the huge tank, but Stepanov was already moving as fast as he could towards Deisel, and the turret was turned to the rear.
An enemy weapon fired at them from ‘Sem’, but the shell missed by some distance, Stepanov’s manoeuvring proving successful.
Stelmakh spared a quick look at the targeted Panther and was happy that it was out of the fight.
He ignored the men running towards it, preferring to keep his limited ammunition for any direct threat.
Ferensky shouted into the intercom.
“After his next shot, stop the tank.”
“Fuck off.”
“I know where the
bastard is. I just need a couple of seconds to put one in his lap.”
“Fuck off.”
“Do it, or the bastard’ll fetch us.”
“You better not fucking mis…”
The enemy shell streaked past the IS-III and Stepanov hit the brakes.
‘Krasniy Suka’ slid a little in the rapid manoeuvre, causing Ferensky to adjust more than he planned, but the target was firmly fixed in his sight.
Smokeless ammunition did not save the Pak 43 on Height 299 and the HE shell, even though it missed its target, was close enough to send bits of the crew in all directions.
The tank leapt forward again, some small arms fire earning the sturm soldiers an HE shell by return.
The IS-III dropped into a rut, causing Stelmakh’s binoculars to bounce up into his jaw.
He squealed as best he could through his dressing, nearly fainting with the surge of pain that followed.
Kalinov emerged and threw the final smoke grenade, quickly dropping back in as the grenadiers renewed their efforts.
A bullet whipped past his head as he disappeared inside.
He produced a bottle of German apple schnapps from the empty ammunition racks, and offered it up to his commander.
“It’ll help with the pain, Comrade Kapitan.”
He understood what the man was about to say, and held the bottle closer.
“We’ve got the last round in the gun, we got the tank and the thing on the hill, the green toads can’t hurt us with their pop guns… and you need a fucking drink, Comrade.”
Stepanov offered up the clincher.
“Nearly there, and you were fucking right, Comrade Kapitan!”
The IS-III was close to the riverbank, where Stelmakh had hoped to find cover enough for a safer withdrawal.
He took the offered bottle, pressed it to what remained of his lips, and passed out as the alcohol hit his wounds.
Kalinov caught both bottle and man; the former was passed to a very thirsty Ferensky, the latter was lowered to the turret floor with due reverence.
‘Krasniy Suka’ carried the four men away from Trendelburg, the sole surviving vehicle of the 6th Guards Independent Breakthrough Tank Regiment, and the only Soviet soldiers to escape the defence of Trendelburg.
