Tiger Command!

by Bob Carruthers

  His inner voice spoke to him once more, “The geburtstag?” In an instant an inner debate was raging. “Sure it’s the geburtstag, so what? So what if it’s his birthday, he won’t care. All that matters to him is beating the Ivans.”

  He gathered his thoughts and quickly came to the rational conclusion that birthdays were for peacetime. Hauptsturmführer von Schroif was sure that he only paid lip service to the idea anyway. Events had taken over. The very idea of celebrating a geburtstag was history, at least for now. Now, the only thing that mattered was to win the war, to annihilate the Popovs, and then there would be time for birthday celebrations once more. Birthday or no birthday, everything was now too important to let domesticity interfere.

  He soon overcame his fears and, for the first time, von Schroif was sure that they would talk. At last, Hans had a chance to get his own points over to him in person. The Möbelpackwagen, the furniture van, it just had to live, it just had to have a future.

  With the methodical approach of a trained military mind, Hans von Schroif ran through the requirements for the big day and ticked them off. Was his dress uniform clean, pressed, and shiny? Tick! Was his Iron Cross polished to the point where it would reflect the late East Prussian spring sunshine? Tick! Was the van fully fuelled and armed? Tick! He knew everything was in order, but he ran through the list mentally one more time, then turned his thoughts to his long-serving crew.

  As one would expect of the driver and sometime engineer, Bobby Junge had spent the whole of the previous day going over every nook and cranny of the Möbelpackwagen. Hans knew that, if Bobby gave things the seal of approval, everything was indeed in order.

  It certainly had its share of teething troubles and, if anyone was hardy enough to engage him on his new favourite subject, a morning could easily be lost as Bobby Junge expanded upon the tinkering which was now required to put things right.

  Bobby Junge was by no means a bore. In fact, he had a great way of lucidly explaining mechanical concepts in layman’s terms, and Junge was all too aware how often his accumulated knowledge could be lifesaving on the battlefield. For that reason, he was always anxious to pass his precious lessons on to other crews, especially newcomers.

  It was in everyone’s interest that they survived to help in the struggle ahead and SS-Panzeroberschütze Junge would therefore happily use his own precious free time to describe the essential maintenance tricks and techniques to new comrades in detail. If they happened to have the spare hour or two, his advice came free, along with some excellent technical drawings made on the spot in order to help new comrades understand the complexities of the Panzer VI which were not apparent from the stuffy manuals produced by Messrs Krupp.

  Despite the obvious teething problems, the Panzer VI, better known to its crew as the furniture van, had its good points too, and over the past week or so Junge waxed increasingly lyrical about these features. Nice wide tracks almost one metre wide helped spread the weight and, amazingly, generated less ground pressure than the Panzer IV. Although the Panzer VI was more than twice as heavy as the Panzer IV, it would obviously be able to cope better with Russian mud, much better than old Magda ever could.

  Despite the massive extra weight, the thing could turn on a sixpence and on-board it was smooth, unbelievably smooth. The suspension was amazing and the Maybach engine seemed just about man enough for the task. In a very short space of time, Bobby Junge had grown to adore the lumbering furniture van and his obvious love of the Panzer VI was infectious.

  Gunner SS-Scharführer Michael Knispel, too, was already enthusiastic to the point of devotion. For an experienced gunner, the optics were what really mattered, and they were first class. The furniture van was equipped with the extremely accurate Leitz Turmzielfernrohr TZF 9b, but then von Schroif had expected that in a new tank. The additional thrill for Knispel was to have the mighty Acht-acht at his fingertips.

  The 88 mm Flugzeugabwehr-Kanone was the flak gun which had saved the skin of the Wehrmacht in Russia and in Libya. Knispel knew only too well that it was the only weapon which could defeat the T-34 or the KV-1 at anything less than suicidally close range. It was widely known and recognised as one of the most effective weapons on the battlefield, but it was nonetheless an anti-aircraft gun. To Knispel’s delight, here it was transformed by the boffins into a tank gun, an amazing adaption by which the former anti-aircraft weapon had been turned into a Kampfwagenkanone par excellence.

  The new tank gun had been issued with a new official designation, the KwK 36 L/56, but Wohl reckoned it should be known as the KWK (PE). Although smaller, it retained all the essential characteristics of the Acht-acht. Knispel noted, with obvious delight, that the new gun had a very flat trajectory and a massive high-velocity impact, which would certainly turn the scales on Ivan.

  Haupsturmführer von Schroif noted to himself that, if only they could get the powers that be to approve production of the furniture van, next time there would be no race against death with Bobby Junge desperately manoeuvring to get a rear shot on the KV-1. Next time, all that Knispel had to do was to line him up on the middle triangle. SS-Panzerschütze Otto Wohl, with his lightning fast reactions, could be relied upon to ram a shell home and boom, whoosh, Ivan would be no more.

  From Wohl’s point of view, the furniture van certainly had plenty of capacity. To have a hundred shells for the wonderful Acht-acht on board was heaven for Wohl, and this was despite the fact that each of the new 88 mm rounds was so much bigger and bulkier than the 75 mm carried on board the old bus.

  Wohl in particular seemed to have adapted seamlessly to the less claustrophobic confines of the Möbelpackwagen. In the training runs, it was as if nothing had changed. No sooner had Knispel pressed the electric firing button than Wohl, as if by magic, had the breach cleared and a new shell in the chute, almost before the last shell had hit the target. The quick reactions of Otto Wohl had saved their skins so many times in Russia. Von Schroif respected the views of his talkative subordinate. He knew that, if the furniture van was right for Wohl, it was right for the rest of the Waffen SS and the Heer, and, on their behalf, von Schroif was ready to fight for the Möbelpackwagen all the way.

  The last member of the team appeared to be fine too. Radio operator SS-Panzeroberschütze Karl Wendorff, as far as von Schroif could discern, approved of the communications set up in the Möbelpackwagen. The funkmeister declared himself happy that the receiver worked like a dream and, as the wandering philosopher of the team, Wendorff reported in his cautious and pedantic manner that, as he wasn’t on the receiving end of the transmission, he had no accurate way of knowing how well the transmitter worked. However, it certainly appeared to work fine. That was enough for von Schroif.

  It crossed Wendorff’s mind at that time to mention the unusual radio signal he had picked up again yesterday. There was a familiar ring to it. He was sure it used the same code he had intercepted during the engagement outside Rostov, but two things prevented him from discussing it with von Schroif: firstly, his commander obviously had enough on his plate today, and secondly, he was still puzzled himself and needed to give it further thought. He planned to leave the subject fallow as the crew were due to meet with Henschel’s chief engineer, Kurt Arnholdt, straight after breakfast.

  As the crippled KV-1 pulled into the workshop, Dimitri Korsak thanked his lucky stars. By claiming the half-track and the recovery vehicles, he’d done just enough to claim a result. After all, the Russians held the field, and the engineers would be burrowing like demented badgers and wouldn’t be disgorged from their positions without a new assault. Sure, there had been losses, but they were replaceable (by Soviet standards). What mattered was that the fascists were being ground down. One day Russia would be free of them, and perhaps one day Germany, too, would be free.

  As he prepared to make his report, Korsak reflected on how close he had come to a reckoning with von Schroif. The intelligence had been good and accurate, but it hadn’t been enough. Next time, there could be no mistakes. Radios we
re becoming standard, but the Germans still held the advantage over the Soviets. There was too much opportunity for his foe to manoeuvre.

  Korsak calculated that what he really needed was to be able to draw von Schroif onto marshy, wooded terrain, where the German’s ability to manoeuvre would be curtailed, and perhaps a screen of anti-tank guns could do their work. Woods were what he thought were needed. He thought of the trackless forests outside his native Leningrad; difficult going with plenty of tree cover. Surely there had to be a way to level the playing field and draw von Schroif northwards.

  “Heil... and good morning, Herr Arnholdt,” Von Schroif said to a rather dishevelled looking Kurt Arnholdt.

  The engineer returned the German greeting, shooting out his right arm with the enthusiasm of one who has fully subscribed to the National Socialist vision.

  “Heil Hitler... Heil von Schroif! It’s really you!”

  “Astonishing... haven’t seen you since KAMA,” said von Schroif. “You’ve obviously been eating well!”

  “You haven’t changed a bit... thank God you are here!” replied Arnholdt.

  “That’s the question I’ve been asking... why me?”

  “That’s down to me, I’m afraid. I’ve been agitating for you to have this assignment. It’s been the devil’s own job. In the end I had to get old Sepp to pull a few strings and have a word in the ear of the Führer. Things don’t look good, Hans. I’ve heard he’s going to cancel the whole Mark VI contract and project, and stick with Krupp for everything.”

  “We can’t allow that to happen,” said von Schroif anxiously. “I can’t blame him though. Seven kilometres from the railhead to here and the damn thing broke down 15 times. Junge had to drive pins into the final drive mechanism just to keep her going. Mind you, Dr Porsche’s effort was even worse... I did offer to give it a tow, on the most polite of terms, you understand.”

  Arnholdt gave a wry smile. “It’s a good design, but its engine is too over-engineered. A hybrid petrol/electric he calls it. Great on paper, but it eats copper and you just can’t get components like that these days. Ours is much better... Maybach will never let you down.”

  “You would say that,” replied von Schroif with a friendly grin. “You’ve put enough in their pockets.”

  “It’s not just that, its professional pride... and a genuine concern for my racial comrades at the front. She’s still a prototype Hans, it’s a work in progress. If we can have two years, the Mark VI will be the finest fighting vehicle in the world.”

  “Two years! You want us to hold out there for another two years while you tinker around back here? How about we swap jobs? You fight the Ivans in Krupp’s tin can, and I’ll hang around in Kassel with the fräuleins!”

  “No thanks, Hans... You wouldn’t want me at the front... unless you want the Russians to win the war! Seriously though, I am glad you are here.”

  “And I am glad to be here, Herr Arnholdt. It is vital that we bring something a little more robust to the front line. We are losing too many fine crews. If I can do my bit to rectify that, then you can count on me.”

  Given von Schroif’s description of the shambolic nature of the journey from the railhead, a panzermann could be forgiven for having some anger at the raw state of the machine, but Hans von Schroif had known Kurt Arnholdt for many a year, and Arnholdt was quick to make him aware of the short time frame involved.

  The order for the Mark VI heavy tank had only been received on the 26th of May the previous year, and the engineers and designers had worked every hour God sent to meet their obligations, but von Schroif knew and trusted the fact that Arnholdt was a tanker’s designer and that he had their best interests at heart.

  “You’re right, we’ve got to have it. The Acht-acht is essential,” said von Schroif.

  “Exactly! I think it is vital to the interests of the Reich that we win this trial today. I say that not through professional pride or, God forbid, for... er... commercial reasons, but for the sake of our men at the front. I believe in my heart of hearts that you will be driving Germany’s best option today, but it is important that you know the machine and its capabilities. It has many strengths, but unfortunately some weaknesses too, although nothing that a good crew will find too daunting.

  “You, young man,” Arnholdt continued, gesturing at Bobby, “your role cannot be overestimated today. This exercise will not be about gunnery, or bravery, or steadfastness on the field of battle – this will be about engines, about speed, reliability and manoeuvrability. It’s about you, SS-Panzerschütze Bobby Junge.”

  “Don’t worry, Herr Arnholdt,” interrupted the incorrigible Otto Wohl. “Bobby ate all the technical manuals for dinner last night, and he’s been regurgitating this stuff all day.”

  This seemed to put Kurt Arnholdt in a better mood, and he said in an almost conspiratorial tone to Junge, “So, you’ll remember, it’s all about the regenerative steering final drive gearbox...” at which he tapped his nose and smiled. From the blank looks on four faces it was obvious that this meant nothing to anyone, except Bobby Junge, who nodded and smiled appreciatively.

  Korsak was not a man to be thwarted by a tank in need of repair. As the workshop platoon sucked in air through their teeth, like mechanics everywhere, and calculated the time needed to find and fit a replacement of the barrel, he bluntly refused the offer of a replacement T-34.

  Captain Androv, the officer in charge of the repair platoon, was visibly nervous when suddenly confronted by Comrade Kommissar Korsak. He stood by, ready to take a roasting over his failure to immediately get the tank back in fighting shape. To his huge relief, the request from Korsak was an innocuous one.

  “Can you please arrange for three cavalry horses and a Protivo-Tankovoye Ruzhyo Degtyarev anti-tank rifle with two hundred and forty rounds to be at my disposal tonight?”

  “Why certainly, kommissar. I am on good terms with Major Demjinski over at the cavalry HQ, and I am sure he will oblige.”

  “I know, that’s why I asked you, and please make sure that two are equipped for riding, and a third pack horse is equipped as shown. I require them at 10 o’clock tonight.”

  Korsak handed the bemused officer a scrap of paper containing a diagram of some simple but unusual horse furniture.

  “I think the workshop can deliver such an article. May I be permitted to ask the purpose?” queried Androv.

  “I plan to use the spare time for a little hunting trip,” came the curt reply.

  “Won’t the shells be too large? They will surely blow a deer apart!” asked Androv.

  “This is war, Comrade Androv. My quarry is not deer. The White Devil hunts only fascist tanks.”

  “I understand, Comrade Korsak,” said Androv nervously, “...but if it is tanks that you are hunting, would it not be better to use one of the T-34s which can be placed at your disposal?”

  “Not for what I have in mind. You see, the horse has the definite advantage of silence, and the ability to negotiate wooded country, where tank travel would be extremely difficult. My comrades in the mounted formations have successfully equipped cavalry with anti-tank weapons, and have used mounted men in an innovative and highly distinctive type of action.

  “This simple piece of equipment which your men will produce allows for packing and, in action, provides a firing platform for the Protivo-Tankovoye Ruzhyo Degtyarev anti-tank rifle. I like this weapon. In my opinion, it is very much underrated. Unfortunately, it is only a single-shot, bolt-action shoulder weapon, but it does have a powerful punch with which I have destroyed many fascist tanks. However, its efficiency comes from the remarkably long barrel. It is therefore difficult to transport on horseback and can only be carried on a pack saddle, or an ordinary cavalry saddle with these modifications.”

  “But who will load for you?” asked Androv.

  “You will, comrade.”

  “As you command, Comrade Korsak,” said Androv with mock enthusiasm. However, the fact that his shoulders sagged in dismay gave away his extreme
nervousness. “...but I do not know how to ride a horse.”

  “You will by tomorrow. It will be a good learning opportunity which will allow you to better understand the fascist war machine, and to learn a valuable new skill. We must learn to think that everything is possible.”

  Korsak returned to the technical diagram. “Now... for transportation on a cavalry-type riding saddle, we require the production of this metal pack device shown here, which consists of a beam with five holes to receive the U-clamps and the brackets, one fixed and one movable.”

  “Why moveable?” asked Androv, who was now resigned to his fate and less inclined to deference.

  “I’ll come to that,” barked Korsak.

  “Please accept my humble apologies, Comrade Korsak,” muttered Androv, impressed by Korsak’s grasp of engineering detail.

  “Good, then no more interruptions. The fixed bracket is welded to the beam, and the movable bracket is fastened to the beam with a bolt. The fixed bracket has a top strap and a lock, both of which are hinged. The movable bracket has a revolving yoke with a hinged fastening strap and a lock. In action mode, it provides a firing swivel and aids accuracy. The two U-clamps with nuts and washers hold the metal device to the saddle bows.

  “The saddle bags carry the boxes with 120 rounds of ammunition. The breast band and the breeching with the tail strap keep the saddle, with its packed load, from slipping forward and backward with a change of pace, or in going over rough country. The saddle-girth, an additional belly-band, strengthens the whole pack arrangement, including the feed bag and spare parts and appurtenances.

  “The feed bag holds the things necessary for the horse’s care, the spare parts, and the equipment belonging to the PATR rifle. The wooden boxes carry the ammunition. The shape and dimensions of the boxes must correspond to the inside dimensions of the saddle bags.”