by Gee, Colin
The chuckle that accompanied the statement was suddenly strangled, and changed to a simple spoken statement as ‘Preacher’ Stevens saw the Grim Reaper coiled and ready to strike like a rattlesnake.
The T54.
“We’re gonna die.”
The blast sent Ayres flying from the turret. Those watching swore that he was blown at least thirty yards high and thirty yards wide, coming to ground in a thick snowdrift that cushioned his fall, leaving only a severed right hand and modest burns to concern him.
Corporal Stevens, lay preacher and gunner, plus the rest of Ayres’ crew, died instantly, as the 100mm shell, delivered by Kon’s main gun, ripped into the tank and exploded.
Two shells streaked across the battlefield, both striking the turret of the T54 in spectacular fashion, and both seemed to fail to cause any apparent damage.
Inside, Serzhant Kolesnikov let everyone know what had happened.
“Fucking power traverse is fucked again, Comrades.”
Kon made an instant decision.
“Leonid, back up now, back to where we were. Make smoke.”
The T54 was equipped with a prototype smoke device that was operated simply by diesel being over-injected into the engine.
As the tank retraced its steps, a further two shells whipped through the gathering smoke, missing by some distance, but close enough to illustrate the wiseness of Kon’s relocation.
A dull clang signalled something striking the tank, but nothing that overrode the concern that arose as a smell of burning reached four sets of nostrils at the same time.
Kolesnikov spotted the problem immediately.
“Fuse box is smoking again.”
Quality control on the prototype was not brilliant, to say the least, and such events were commonplace, something that would have to be addressed before the Red Army took the T54 into battle in numbers.
Leonid Kartsev added to their woes.
“The engine’s gone funny on me, power dropping off.”
Again, Kon reacted quickly.
“Stop smoke, Leonid.”
The order made sense, as the smoke system might well be affecting the performance of the engine.
“Done.”
The engine note did not change for the better, and they could all sense the growing labour of the V12 diesel.
“Not happening, Roman, it’s something else.”
The smell of burning was stronger now, definitely more than just the fuse box, and eyes flicked around the vehicle interior seeking the source.
“Temperature climbing! Shit! I need to close it down, Comrade!”
Kon flipped the hatch and discovered the source of the burning smell immediately. The dull clang had been part of a large bough dropping on the tank. It was burning steadily and giving off plenty of smoke, some of which was being drawn back inside.
Ducking his head back into the turret, he checked his intercom, noting that it had just surrendered to ‘unforeseen technical difficulty’ once more.
‘Fucking shit kit!’
“Leonid, back up another twenty metres, then knock it off.”
“Yes.”
When the tank came to rest. Kon and Kartsev took less than minutes to discover the problem.
A water hose had blown, a weak spot giving way under the pressure.
“I have a spare, Comrade. Five minutes. But we need more water.”
The crew were experienced enough to know that the snow would provide all the water they needed.
Leaving Kolesnikov to work on his traverse again, Kon and Morozov dragged the burning wood off the tank and used it to good advantage, melting snow in the metal buckets that the crew possessed for a myriad of purposes.
“When Leonid is done, we’re fucking off. The tank is falling apart around our fucking ears, and I can’t risk it being left to the capitalists.”
They were given extra speed by the sudden sounds of intense fighting nearby, immediately understanding that the infantry were being heavily pressed.
1346 hrs, Friday, 6th December 1945, Dahlem, Germany.
Ponichenkarova’s mortar crew reserve had been swallowed up quickly and was no longer effective; in reality, no longer existed.
The handful of survivors were embroiled in the heaviest fighting, with no hope of recovery.
Astafieva was losing consciousness, the thick fingers around her neck constricting both her airway and the blood flow to her racing brain.
She struck out, connecting with the large American, her efforts in vain as the man continued to throttle the life out of her.
Warm liquid splashed across her face, once, then again, as a bayonet exited the man’s shoulder, and then his chest.
The animal sound that came from him penetrated her cloudy mind, but still he clung on, determined to take her with him.
Astafieva saw the blur as a rifle butt, swung with desperate force, smashed into the left side of the dying man’s head, propelling him to the right and breaking his hold.
The gurgling stopped as she regained her senses, the unconscious GI asphyxiated by a combination of snow and blood.
Her saviour, Ponichenkarova, dropped to her knees, the exertions of the kill making her breathless.
“Renata...are you... alright... thought... the bastard had... killed you.”
Astafieva gingerly felt her neck, grimacing with the pain of the severe bruises that were declaring themselves.
Words did not, actually, could not come, so she just nodded.
To show her willingness, she took up her Mosin rifle and dragged herself up to the edge of the position.
Ponichenkarova’s SVT had no ammunition left, so she discarded it in favour of the American’s Garand.
Rummaging around in the dead man’s webbing, she pulled out some spare chargers and tried to work out how to load the weapon.
Astafieva’s rifle cracked, startling her in her moment of concentration.
A croaky voice revealed that the younger woman was feeling very vengeful over her brush with death.
“Got you, you bastard.”
The rifle clacked as the bolt was worked, followed by another shot, and a repeat of the triumphant croaking.
Ponichenkarova thought she had the American weapon worked out so raised the rifle and picked a target.
‘An officer. Good!’
Towers was flung to the snow by the force of the blow on his right hip, the pain of the strike immediately cutting through the anger he was experiencing as his men were being killed and wounded all around him.
Ponichenkarova had hit her target but, in another sense, hadn’t.
The bullet had actually struck the main body of Towers’ Colt automatic, wrecking the weapon. However, it failed to penetrate the skin and left only a heavy bruise, although it would be a little time before the shocked officer realised that he hadn’t been fatally wounded. His misery was complete when blood started to flow from his old wound, opened when he hit the ground and impacted with a rock beneath the snow.
“Good gun.”
She was impressed with the capitalist weapon, slotting in the first charger, having fired the three rounds she inherited with the rifle, hitting everything she aimed at.
Astafieva slapped her arm and pointed.
“There, Serzhant... they’re getting round us!”
A group of American soldiers had overcome one position, and were using a hedgerow to get behind the main defensive line.
Both rifles aimed at the group and let fly.
Neither hit their targets, but the men dropped instantly into cover.
Two small explosions quickly followed, and chemical smoke started to drift over their position.
“Move! Quickly!”
Ponichenkarova grabbed Astafieva and rolled them both out of the position.
Both of them heard the thuds and braced themselves.
Two grenades exploded simultaneously.
Dina Ponichenkarova squealed as a piece of metal cut across the back of her left calf as,
simultaneously, another destroyed her left ankle.
None the less, she again grabbed her companion and dropped back into the position, bringing the Garand up as dark forms took shape in the smoke.
Astafieva fired the first shot, and was rewarded with an animal like scream as one of the attackers was struck in the belly.
The leading shape transformed itself into a crouching runner, an M3 submachine gun spraying bullets as he charged.
Two of them struck Ponichenkarova, one in her shoulder, missing everything of importance and passing through into the snow beyond.
The other struck her left arm, shattering the humerus just above the elbow joint.
Astafieva, having just put down another of the grey shapes, transferred her aim to the closer target, ignoring the tug as one of his rounds carried away her epaulette.
She shot him in the neck, and the dead body dropped to the snow like a rag doll.
Turning back to the other attackers, Renata Astafieva was swatted to one side by an exploding grenade.
The pain was intense as her right chest and side were peppered with fragments. The force of the explosion ripped part of her clothing away, exposing soft pink flesh lavishly decorated with fresh blood.
An American rose above the position and shot the screaming Ponichenkarova in the chest, silencing her noise in an instant.
He dropped in beside the wounded Astafieva and looked around, seeking further targets and threats.
Finding none, he examined the wounded girl, paying particular attention to the curved breast exposed by the explosion, the erect nipple leaking a steady stream of blood where the minutest sliver of metal had slashed the aureole.
He squeezed the soft female flesh hard, not caring about the pain he inflicted, causing the blood to run more freely from the nipple and a previously unnoticed wound on the underside of the perfectly rounded form.
He looked around again and made a decision.
He ruffled up Renata’s skirt, exposing her thighs, and quickly worked to expose much more.
Astafieva struggled,but a single short punch knocked the fight out of her for long enough to allow the soldier to roll on top of her, unbutton his fly and release himself.
A loud crack brought Astafieva out of the cocoon the blow had sent her to, as did as the sight of the would-be rapist’s head exploding, as a Garand round punched through bone and brain.
Remarkably, the man was still alive, or at least breathing by some automatic response, his ability to understand, talk, speak, and remember,forever destroyed by the passage of the bullet.
Ponichenkarova let the rifle slip as her strength failed, the extraordinary effort of raising the Garand hastening her end.
Astafieva rolled over to the dying woman.
Even in death, Ponichenkarova had something to say, and she tried as best as her destroyed lung and blood loss allowed.
“I’ve always loved you.”
Ponichenkarova had never let on, but Astafieva had always felt that the older NCO treated her differently.
“I know, Dina,” she lied, “And I love you too, Lapochka,” which wasn’t a lie.
For the few seconds they had left to share together, both knew they would never have what could have been.
Dina Ponichenkarova coughed, and a huge stream of blood fell from her mouth and nose.
“Lapoc...”
‘Sweethea...’
The old NCO died, her staring glassy eyes providing a warning that Renata Astafieva saw too late, the movement reflected in them translating itself into a stunning blow to the back of her head.
“You fucking bitches, YOU FUCKING BITCHES!”
The incensed GI shot Ponichenkarova’s corpse in the face three times, destroying it utterly. He turned the Garand on Astafieva.
The uncovered breast, the skirt pulled up exposing shapely thighs, the surrender in the girl’s eyes, one, or all of them, gave him a moment’s pause, and the rifle lowered as more basic thoughts replaced revenge.
Checking around quickly, he propped the rifle against the snow bank and dropped into the position and on top of the wounded Russian.
A hand worked hastily on his trousers and Woods was quickly ready. He entered her and drove himself as deep as he could, the pain of the experience focussing Astafieva’s stunned mind, but not giving her the tools to prevent the violation.
The grunts commenced as the rape neared its conclusion, the frequency and depth of his thrusts indicating that he would soon expend himself.
The American let out a moan as he shot his semen inside her, shuddering in ecstasy, and forgetting where he was for the briefest of wonderful moments.
His memory was refreshed by a hand that grabbed his webbing and pulled him off Astafieva.
The terrified girl froze at the face of the man that held a Thompson submachine gun hard against the nose of the rapist.
The voice chilled her further for, although she failed to understand a word, the threat it carried was very clear indeed; but the anger was not directed at her.
“Woods... so help me God... I should shoot you now... you bastard... you fucking bastard...”
He pressed the terrified man into the snow with the weapon, his other seeking to comfort the petrified woman.
Towers composed himself, tenderly pulling Astafieva’s clothes up over her as he made his decision.
“Private First Class Woods, Robert H, I am arresting you for rape and murder under the authority granted to me by the Articles of War.”
He grabbed the prisoner’s Garand and tossed it to one of his waiting men.
There was much more that he wanted to say, but Towers had a battle to fight.
Eyes fixed on the wretched Woods, he spoke to the man who had caught the rifle.
“Corporal, take this man back to the rear and keep him secure until I return. Any trouble... any trouble at all,” his eyes burned into Woods’, stifling any building petulance, “Anything he does, if he gets outta line, deal with it. Break what ever you have to to shut the bastard up, but don’t be shooting him. He’s gonna dangle. Clear, Corporal?”
“Yessir.”
With a less than gentle prod of his own rifle, the newly appointed gaoler encouraged the prisoner to move off.
Towers moved aside, and let the medic do his work on the Russian girl, allowing his mind to switch back to the battle.
The US assault had taken the enemy line, and the combat engineers were pushing on, backed up by the remaining tanks.
The breakthrough attracted extra assets from higher authority, and the rest of the 746th Tank Battalion was focussed on the spot, leading the point elements of the 4th US Armored Division, unleashed by a certain pistol-toting general who was champing at the bit to get at the enemy.
90th Division had sustained some heavy casualties but had, in the main, done the job.
Love Company had had the fight knocked out of it, and was holed up on the northern and southern edges of town, steering clear of central and eastern Dahlem, for fear of enemy artillery.
A modest counter-attack was put in, seemingly without much conviction, for it was easily driven off by Micco’s super-equipped halftrack.
The Soviet forces then melted from the field.
Light artillery fire bothered the new defenders for some moments, enough to cause yet more casualties amongst the exhausted GI’s.
The incoming fire came and went in minutes, the Soviet unit responsible receiving a thorough working over from USAAF Thunderbolts, causing it to concentrate more on survival than supporting their weakened front lines.
1503 hrs, Friday, 6th December 1945, US Army Forward medical post, Dahlem, Germany.
Towers gritted his teeth as the unsympathetic orderly fished around for more wooden splinters.
One of the final shells tossed into Dahlem had struck an old hay cart, sending small slivers of aged wood in all directions, depositing at least thirty small, but excruciatingly painful pieces, in Towers’ back and rear portions.
Th
e orderly had started with a wicked piece, some three inches long, carefully removing it from the Captain’s neck ,and then continued the journey south, removing pieces of wood on every visit to the swollen bleeding flesh.
“Hey, Cap’n. Didn’t you get it in the arse down south?”
There was a moment of silence.
The young medic, fresh from medical school in California, delivered to the 90th just after the war kicked off again, failed to spot the signs.
“Never forget a face, and this one looks familiar.”
The high-pitched laugh completed the job of pissing the officer off.
Towers rolled over as, as best he could, and engaged his victim in soft fatherly tones.
“Son, I swear to you, one more fucking word outta place and I’ll transfer you to the graves registration unit... where you’ll dig the holes with a spoon. Kapische?”
The smile held no humour.
“Uh yeah...Cap’n. I got it... sorry.”
The arrival of a badly wounded Henderson did nothing to improve Towers’ mood, neither did the sight of Baines’ mangled hand, an horrendous injury the Sergeant had sustained when dismounting a halftrack late in the day’s fighting.
Landing heavily, he had overbalanced into the offside assembly and the hand was crushed between track and roller as he tried to check his fall.
Shortly afterwards, the surgeons removed the hand at the wrist, and Baines’ fighting days were over.
Across the front, Soviet forces had repositioned in response to the warnings, reducing their casualties from air strike and bombardment, trading ground for lives saved. As the US and German forces advanced, resistance stiffened, and the experience of Dahlem was repeated in a score of small German villages from the Ruhr to the Ardennes.
Patton threw his men forward, pushing his commanders hard. Guderian, commanding the German pincer forces, understood that the situation was not as had been envisaged, and requested Eisenhower to discontinue the attacks.
“Spectrum Blue will continue as planned, Field Marshal. Make every effort to keep to the timetable.”
