Von Schroif’s gaze returned to the fallen medic who had died on his way to attend the wounded grenadier. What a soldier! The young man had kept to his duty even after the loss of a limb. Sadly, there was no time to provide him with a soldier’s grave. Germany needed men like him, but their ranks were becoming thinner every day.
Oblivious to the dangers, Wendorff opened his hatch and shouted to his commander. “Shall I order them to back up, sir?”
“No!” replied von Schroif, a trifle too quickly. “Tell them to stay put and keep their main guns trained on the forest. We are expecting a few guests and maybe a present from the Popovs... Everybody else, get down here. Let’s get this fixed.”
As von Schroif considered his options, he was unaware that all the time he was being closely observed from the nearby hillock by Andrey Basilevsky of the reconnaissance unit of the Guards tank battalion. Andrey too loved to hunt, and in better times the two men would have enjoyed each other’s company, but today Andrey was hunting fascists and von Schroif was the prey. Having already claimed two victims, Basilevsky knew all he had to do was wait.
Within a few seconds he smiled as he saw the crippled tank’s crew emerge with tools and spare track links. One figure quickly scuttled under the tank, leaving the other three to start work on the track. Basilevsky did not fire immediately though, as Koniev was still struggling with the dials in a vain attempt to connect the radio to HQ. That momentary hesitation was to cost him his life.
At any minute Basilevsky expected to hear the roar of engines as a column of panzers revved up their engines from idle as they retraced their steps from whence they came, back along their tracks towards the muddy rollbahn. He began to plot the distance at which the barrage would fall. “700 metres should do it...”
Basilevsky calculated that there was no need for a tell-tale spotting round; Stalin’s Organ would obliterate the whole area. Arranged behind him was an entire brigade of lorry-borne Katyushas which had been brought to just behind the front by a superhuman effort, and those efforts were about to be rewarded by the death of the best German tank commander in the southern sector. The intelligence had been perfect. This was a cakewalk, all he had to do was wait for Koniev to connect the radio to HQ and Kampfgruppe von Schroif would be history.
In the meantime, there was sport to be had. As Sergei Koniev continued to struggle with the bulky radio set, Andrey Basilevsky once more took up his rifle, readjusted his position, and muttered quietly to himself. “Keep going, you fascist bastards. You offend Mother Russia with your presence, and she is about to make you pay!”
Those were the last words he would ever utter. Suddenly, as if from nowhere, the bullet from a Sauer hunting rifle sliced clean through his face and, speeding through the recesses of his brain, blew away the back of his skull.
His compatriot looked on in horror before instinctively going to the aid of his comrade. He should have taken cover, for he was the next target. A German bullet crashed into his skull through his left ear and exited through the right, taking most of the side of his head with it.
Noticing the tell-tale puff of smoke, Hauptsturm-führer von Schroif peered under the tank. As he suspected, lying prone under the crippled panzer was gunner Michael Knispel, who patted the telescopic sights of the Sauer and looked back at von Schroif and smiled.
“I thought we said no poaching?” said von Schroif.
“That wasn’t poaching, Hauptsturmführer... that was culling a few rats.”
“OK, but no non-standard weapons aboard my bus, understood?”
“Jawohl, Hauptsturmführer.”
There was no need for any more words. Von Schroif was damned if he could find the hiding place where Knispel managed to conceal his beloved hunting rifle in the cramped interior of Magda. It was against all regulations to carry a personal weapon, and von Schroif obeyed regulations scrupulously. He had deliberately searched the bus at night while the crew were in their billet and had come to the conclusion that Knispel probably slept with it.
He knew what that smile meant; once a poacher, always a poacher. Somehow, the Sauer would be smuggled aboard and, although he conscientiously did his duty to prevent it, secretly von Schroif was glad to know it would be there in future... just in case.
“Ok, we’ve bought ourselves some time. Now let’s get this track back on!” ordered von Schroif.
Working feverishly, the five men set to their tasks. Von Schroif was fully aware that, in the absence of contact from their spotters, the Russian gunners would do a quick calculation of how much ground the column should cover before letting loose. For now at least, the small formation of panzers was safe from that particular danger.
In the meantime the cold had not abated. If anything, it seemed to have intensified. Just one more reason to hate Russia, hate the shitty war, and curse everything that went with it. With stiff, blue and bloodied hands, the crew worked with a discipline born of familiarity to repair the damaged track, each man knowing that failure would mean death or, even worse, capture by the Red Army.
For a relatively small man, Michael Knispel displayed a remarkable strength. His large hands worked quickly and, when an extra burst of muscle was required, the former boxer was able to deliver the necessary power. The job was progressing well, but von Schroif knew it was only a matter of moments before the barrage would fall.
Flecks of snow now came in on the cold Easterly wind, freezing not just their faces but spreading throughout their bodies and hurting hands and feet, but there was absolutely no time to rub their hands or stamp their feet in an effort to get warm, nor was there any point in thinking of the massed T-34s in the forest or the units of Siberian Devils that would surely follow them.
Just then von Schroif heard the clanking of T-34 tracks. “Hurry boys, the Popovs will be opening up any second now!”
Then it started, the familiar moan and then the earsplitting roar as the first Katyusha barrage landed behind them, the ground shaking, the trees splitting, mud and rock shooting across the pale, white landscape.
“Keep going, boys, keep going!” von Schroif shouted. “Stay on the job!”
And then came wave after wave, each one sounding louder than the previous, a roar from the very depths of Hell itself, the ground rippling and rolling under them as the shock waves spread out across the land.
Every neuron of the brain sent the message, “Take cover! Take cover!” But each man knew that they had to stick to the job at hand, every natural impulse towards self-preservation had to be resisted. Then suddenly the barrage halted, to be replaced by an eerie silence which was soon broken by the screeching of disturbed birds.
“Had the other panzers survived?” thought von Schroif. No time to look. Nearly there!
“Come on boys, one last heave!” ordered von Schroif, but the crew involuntarily halted as they heard the roar of thousands of human voices. “Hurrah!” It was the deep-throated war cry of what sounded like a whole army of Russians, charging through the trees.
“No point in looking, no point in thinking, just get that track back on and get back into the tank.”
Then came another roar, a deeper roar, the sound of a force of twenty T-34s revving up and rumbling through the trees. Von Schroif dared not glance up. Even if he did, he would have seen nothing. The smokescreen from the smoke shells blew down from the opening of the forest and engulfed him and his men. There was no time to cough, no time to rub smarting eyes. All that mattered was, “Track! Track! Track!”
“Grenadiers!” shouted Von Schroif, without taking his eyes away from his main preoccupation.
The smoke would clear soon and they would be stranded and out in the open. Hopefully, God willing, the Russian tanks would engage with the main group of panzers and they would only be of interest to the Russian infantry. The grenadiers took up positions around the Panzer IV and still the crew worked on.
Then came the sound of main guns opening up and he could hear both enemy and friendly fire. Suddenly an explosion followed, a
huge explosion, the unmistakable sound of a tank being hit then blown apart by its own ammunition exploding. The question for von Schroif was now “Ours or theirs?”
“No time to look... Sounded distant, so likely to be theirs... Bet it was Bolter in Greta... Good man, Bolter. Not long now...”
At that moment there was suddenly something else to occupy the mind. With a further blood-chilling cry of “Hurrah!” which echoed around the valley, the first wave of Russians came running out of the forest and down the hill towards them.
As he worked with his crew von Schroif could hear the Unterscharführer in charge of the grenadiers intoning quietly: “Hold... Hold... Hold... Fire!”
There was the familiar ripping sound as the MG 34 barked into life. The other grenadiers opened up with rifles and automatic weapons. A deadly hail of steel cut the Russians down, screaming and falling like rag dolls as the grenadiers let loose. The fusillade lasted for about thirty seconds, then silence, but for the howling and plaintive cries of the wounded.
Suddenly it was done! The track was back on! No time for congratulations, no relief, just the simple order, “Get back in the bus!”
Even as the crew began to scramble into their tank, there came another great cheer and a second wave of Russian infantry came charging out of the forest. Again, the order was given: “Hold... Hold... Hold... Fire!” The grenadiers opened up, and again scores of men were wiped from the face of the earth.
“Now!” ordered Von Schroif.
Otto Wohl kissed the hatch as he jumped back in, shouting, “No home could be finer!”
At last the crew were able to settle back into the welcoming interior of Magda.
Gazing from the turret, the smoke clearing, von Schroif could make out the rest of his panzers just south of the hamlet, perfectly positioned for the emergence of the T-34s as they came forward from the forest. But where were they?
Just then he saw a flash from out of one of the panje huts and a split second later his heart sank as he saw SS-Panzerstandartenjunker von Mausberg’s Helga explode into flames, the turret careering up into the air like a giant flaming frying pan. A second later came the noise of the explosion. There was no time for reflection. Another experienced and capable crew gone.
Karl Wendorff, with one eye alert for targets for his bow machine gun, listened intently as the FU7 radio receiver burst into life with directions, ranges and locations. The panzers swivelled their turrets in the direction of the hamlet, but not before another flash from the same building and another tank, Greta, was hit. A fire took hold immediately, thick black smoke billowing out of the crippled vehicle. Despite the distance, they could hear the unmistakable sound of men trapped, screaming and burning to death.
“Anti-tank gun in the panje hut far right!” barked Knispel over the intercom.
Wendorff swiftly conveyed the target information and the four surviving panzers instantly opened up on the target building with high-explosive rounds, blowing the flimsy wooden panje hut apart and revealing the source of the danger. Knispel had been mistaken. It was not an anti-tank gun as he had predicted, but the hulking shape of a concealed Soviet KV-1, lying in the perfect ambush position.
They were now faced with 45 tonnes of nigh on impenetrable steel. There was only one sure way of destroying this mobile fortress of iron and that was with a point-blank hit to the rear. That would be impossible for the other panzers; they were out in the open and fully in sight and range. They were returning fire with well-aimed AP rounds, von Schroif could see the hits, but the shells were ricocheting harmlessly off the monster’s 70 mm thick hide.
“Junge,” barked von Schroif to his driver. “Take us in by the forest and come in at him from behind.”
Bobby Junge immediately shifted the gears, turning Magda on the spot before spinning off the track and heading up to the edge of the forest, and in the process turning to mincemeat the fallen Soviet infantry who lay in their way. This was a highly risky strategy and von Schroif knew it. There were T-34s in the forest that could come roaring out at any minute and attack from the rear, and an adversary up ahead with a combination of armour and armament which made it the undisputed master of the battlefield. What if he saw them coming up from behind?
The KV-1 was picking off his panzers at will. He was expertly positioned and he still hadn’t called in for support. Who was this Russian commander?
The battle-scarred Panzer IV raced up on the firmer ground leading to the edge of the forest. As Bobby Junge spun her around, almost as if she were a figure skater, von Schroif turned and looked back up the track, and there they were! A score of T-34s on the muddy rollbahn, pressing slowly up the hill towards the German rear.
“Faster, Junge!” ordered von Schroif, and Magda picked up speed as she came down off the incline of the hill and sped up across the open ground. The KV-1 would have to wait. This once in a lifetime target was just too good to miss. The mud was making progress difficult, even for the enemy. In their arrogance, the T-34s slowly making their way up the hill each presented him with the coveted rear shot.
At that moment the ever alert von Schroif noticed a new danger; a Soviet tractor pulling an anti-tank gun raced from the forest and took up position in the open. The Russian crew spilled out and began working frantically to get the gun into action. At this short range there was no chance that Magda would survive a hit. There was no time to load with high-explosive, but, instinctively, driver Bobby Junge knew what to do.
“Anti-tank gun, 200 metres, 12 o’clock. Overrun attack!” ordered von Schroif.
Magda’s engine screamed as the panzer streaked towards the gun in a desperate race against time. It was a near run thing. Just as the Soviet gunner threw his first shell into the breach, Magda crashed into the gun, which buckled as it was forced backwards. There was insufficient mass to destroy the tractor, which now flew into reverse and careered towards the forest.
Bobby Junge tried reversing, but the tangled wreck of the gun was now intertwined with the panzer.
“Halt,” ordered von Schroif.
Everyone knew the KV-1 could wait. The perfect target had appeared. It was a tank man’s dream and was too good to miss. Stretched before them, rolling slowly up a steep hill, was the entire column of T-34s.
Wohl needed no second invitation and loaded with armour-piercing. Knispel knew instinctively what his commander required. The Kampfwagenkanone barked out and a shell smashed through the rear deck of the lead T-34, which was now approaching the crest of the hill on the rollbahn. With no room to pass the stricken T-34, the Russian column immediately ground to a halt, and some vehicles began to slide backwards. With ruthless efficiency, Wohl and Knispel picked off the rearmost tank, which was still on flat ground. The Russian column was now boxed in, halted and immobile.
Von Schroif watched in satisfaction as many of the halted machines slithered backwards and crashed into each other. Normally, he would have ordered the T-34s taken prisoner and put into action against their former masters. Beutepanzer had been pressed into service since 1941, and an influx of fresh machines would be welcomed by Hauptscharführer Rubbal and his team, but his blood was surging from the death of the comrades in two of the tanks under his command.
“Now, you bastards, now it’s your time!” He watched in grim satisfaction as, one by one, the Soviet tanks were targeted and blown apart by the experienced team of Wohl and Knispel.
As Magda, still entangled with the wreck of the anti-tank gun, edged forward between shots, the lurking KV-1 gradually came into view. In the excitement of finding the new target von Schroif had momentarily forgotten the KV-1, and he was horror-struck by what he saw. The monster was hull-down in a superb defensive position, backed up against a wall. A mound of earth protected her flank and the whole area was further obscured by the debris from the flattened panje hut. He wouldn’t be able to get in behind her! Worse, the turret was swivelled in the opposite direction, which spelled death for the remaining four tanks of his Kompanie. He couldn’t have chosen a
better spot himself. There was only one option left, hardly an option at all, and there was little or no time left...
“Wendorff! Tell the others to concentrate on the T-34s. Knispel, let’s give him a little notice that we are here.”
Otto Wohl knew there was little point in wasting a hollow-charge round on the turret of a KV-1, so he selected the Kanone Granate rot Panzer, the standard armour-piercing shell, identified by its red band, and in an instant Knispel had aimed and fired the round. The projectile flew from the short barrel of Magda’s main gun, streaking towards the turret of the KV-1 at 385 metres per second. The short delay felt like a lifetime, but Knispel’s aim was perfect, and two and a half seconds later there was an almighty metallic flash as the speeding projectile hit the turret of the KV-1 and gouged a small piece of metal from the massive structure before ricocheting harmlessly skywards amid a huge cloud of white smoke and sparks. The sound of the violent clash reached them a few moments later.
“Well, we certainly rang the doorbell,” whispered Knispel, as slowly the turret of the KV-1 began to turn. There was no possibility of a penetration, but the round had done its job. The deadly 76 mm gun would soon be brought to bear against them.
“He knows we’re here now,” intoned von Schroif. “Knispel... we only have one choice left, can you do it again?”
“Jawohl, Hauptsturmführer!”
“Load with hollow-charge.” The command was really a question, but it was superfluous. In moments like these, von Schroif inevitably deferred to the superior hunting instincts of SS-Hauptscharführer Knispel. Michael Knispel mistrusted the accuracy of the hollow-charged Granate Holladung. From his cramped position, Wohl knew what Knispel would require for this one vital shot and had already rammed another red-ringed Kanone Granate rot Panzer into the breach.
Tiger Command! Page 3
