Tiger Command!

by Bob Carruthers

  “I understand, Comrade Korsak,” said Androv. “May I be permitted to ask how the horse equipment is to be assembled?”

  “You may, Comrade Androv. Take careful note, as I shall say this only once.”

  As Androv grasped for a pencil, Korsak began to list his requirements.

  “The assembly of the riding saddle is carried out according to the following directions. It is recommended that a second saddle cloth be put underneath, for greater softness. The breast band and breeching are fastened on by means of connecting straps to the breeching and breast band rings of the saddle cloth cover on the right side. The breast band and breeching are next fastened onto the left side at the time of saddling and adjusting. The breast band is then connected to the front saddle bow by the neck pad straps. The breeching is finally connected to the rear saddle bow and the tail strap by two straps, fastened onto the bow and tail strap.

  “The saddle bags are put on the saddle bows in the usual manner. The metal pack device is fastened to the saddle bows by two U-clamps. For this, the U-clamps are passed underneath the saddle bows so that they encircle them and project across the clamps. The beam is placed fixed-bracket forward, with its holes over the U-clamp bolts, and is fastened down with washers and nuts, tightened as far as possible.”

  Barely pausing for breath, Korsak continued to spout forth a detailed stream of instructions.

  “The saddle as it is assembled is to be packed as follows; the wooden boxes with the shells are put into the saddle bags and fastened with pack straps. Saddle pockets with oats are packed on top of the front saddle bags and fastened with pack straps. The feed bag with the articles necessary for the horse’s care, and the spare parts and equipment for the PATR rifle, are placed in the middle, across the saddle, and fastened down with the saddle by the saddle girth.

  “The PATR rifle is then put into the bracket yokes, breech forward, muzzle to the rear. The gun is placed so that the sight is up and the back plate is in a horizontal position; the mounting collar of the rifle must be even with the edges of the yoke of the rear bracket. The rifle is fastened to the device by means of the top straps and locks of the yokes. If the horse’s neck permits, the gun may be fastened from four to six inches forward of the normal position. Unpacking is done in an order reverse to that of packing.”

  Driven on by fear, Captain Androv had, by 22:00 hours, somehow managed to assemble everything Korsak had ordered. With Korsak leading the pack horse, the two men slipped out of the Russian lines and into German-held territory. They travelled across country for 15 kilometres, then made a wide turn for the rollbahn. It was a perfect moonlit night and Korsak seemed to know what he was looking for. With a hunter’s instinct, he was tracking down his familiar prey. Androv sensed that he had done this many times.

  As they rode along, Korsak delivered a stream of precise instructions. Androv grew in confidence. He sensed that he was with a master tank killer and his nerves began to ease. Korsak was a supreme motivator, and even the art of horse riding began to feel within the art of the possible. Korsak did not have to explain what both men already knew. The German tanks would go into laager for the night and he intended to find them. He knew they would be in the vicinity of the Rostov rollbahn, but where?

  As the night wore on, they continued their search. Korsak used the time to explain the tactics they would adopt.

  “In the event that I am killed or wounded, Comrade Androv, you will have to take over the gun, and it will be your duty to fight to the last round. It is important to remember that for a distance of as much as 400 metres, the effect of the wind on the PATR need not be considered. Also remember the deflection correction for the movement of the tank. At a speed of twenty kilometres per hour, a lead of one metre is required for every 100 metres of range.

  “We are looking for the Mark IV machines. If we find them, I will destroy them, but if they destroy me, you must stay calm and remember to aim for the rear of the turret, as you know the gunner and ammunition are there. If you hit the ammunition, you can blow up the tank. This is a wonderful sight, comrade, when a fascist machine explodes and the turret is hurled into the air. It makes one’s heart beat with joy.”

  “I should very much like to see that, Comrade Korsak,” replied Androv.

  “I hope you will get your wish tonight, but in the event that you find yourself in command of the gun, and if a shot at the rear of the turret is not possible, which it will not be if the gun is swung towards you, then fire at the centre of the rear half of the tank. As you know well, the motor and the fuel containers are there. If you hit either one, you will put the tank out of action.”

  “I had no idea the anti-tank rifle was such a potent weapon,” said Androv.

  “Indeed it is, Comrade Androv, but it takes courage. It’s no use at long range. When firing a PATR at a moving target, it is essential to let the fascist tanks come within 200 metres or closer. The best gunners will allow the tank to approach to within 100 metres. A well camouflaged anti-tank rifle crew can put any fascist tank out of action with a few well-aimed shots, and don’t forget that the fascists stick to the rollbahn like glue, so one burning machine can easily be used to block the road for a whole column of tanks.”

  Initially, the hunt for the German tanks proved fruitless, and even Korsak seemed to grow weary and eventually fell into silence. It looked as if their mission would end in failure, until just before dawn, when they emerged from a small wood bordered by a wide lake.

  Responding to Korsak’s gesture, Androv was able to make out the shape of six German tanks parked up on the side of the rollbahn. Among the panje huts on the other side of the road were the shapes of half-tracks and supply trucks, but Korsak only had eyes for the tanks. The side of each parked vehicle was parallel to their position and perfectly exposed to their fire. Korsak was inwardly elated. Androv was terrified, and he felt the adrenaline pumping in his veins, his mouth dry, and the pounding in his ears.

  This far behind the lines, the German crews considered themselves relatively safe, safe enough to sleep in the rough huts of the small village which bordered the road to the right. Nonetheless, the German commander had selected his site with care. To the left of the tanks was the wide lake, some 100 metres broad, which gave the tanks protection against any Soviet tanks approaching from that direction. Unfortunately, it also formed a barrier, making pursuit of any attacker impossible.

  Unobserved, the two men dismounted and tied their horses to a tree. Together they stealthily unpacked the anti-tank rifle and mounted it on the swivel of the device manufactured by Androv’s men, and now attached to the saddle of the pack horse. Assembly and loading was soon complete and the anxious Captain Androv expected them to open fire. To his intense frustration, the panicky Androv had to wait in an agony of fearful torture as Korsak, cool as ice, delayed opening fire and whispered his final instructions.

  “Now is the time to show daring, Comrade Androv. As I told you, the best range is 100 metres. When the firing starts, don’t let the enemy fire lead you to forget your duty. Fix this in your mind: as long as I am not incapacitated, you must keep loading the rifle, whatever else happens.”

  Androv was just about able to speak. “Understood, Comrade Korsak.”

  “Good. Now, this anti-tank rifle can fire eight to ten rounds per minute, if the gunner and his loader use teamwork. At this range, it’s just as effective as a 76 mm gun at 1,500 metres. We have the perfect target. I shall aim for the first tank then switch fire to the rear-most tank. I shall then proceed from the rear to the head of the column. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Comrade Korsak,” came the whispered reply from Captain Androv, his mouth parched and his heart pounding in his chest.

  “Once we open fire I shall open and close the breech, aiming and firing. You must be careful to clean and oil each of the shells before you place it in the chamber. In the event that I am wounded or killed and the turrets are turned towards you, you must fire at the centre of the rear half of the tank. Rem
ember, the motor and the fuel containers are there. Good luck, Comrade Androv.”

  With that, Korsak finally took aim and fired at the lead tank. The first four shots all produced hits on the lead tank, but there was no explosion. All hell now broke loose as figures came running from all directions and sprinted towards the tanks. Hatches were flung open as black clad figures disappeared inside the tanks and turrets began to traverse towards them.

  Cursing his luck, Korsak switched to the fuel tanks. With his ninth shot he finally got his reward as the foremost tank burst into flames. The crew, who had only just got into the vehicle, immediately leapt out and began to fire wildly in their direction with their small arms.

  Dragged from his brief sleep by the sound of firing, SS-Sturmbannführer Helmut Voss rushed from his hut and began to take stock of the situation. From the muzzle flash it was clear that they were under attack from what appeared to be an anti-tank rifle, firing from a position just behind the tree line. The lack of supporting machine gun fire suggested a very small group.

  “Partisans? Potentially a diversion...” thought Voss, and immediately sent a platoon to cover the other approach to the village before he turned his attention to the tanks.

  Korsak and Androv were only too aware that the fire of the remaining five tanks would soon be trained upon them, so they had to work fast, but Androv’s trembling hands would not permit the smooth flow of new rounds which would make for the rapid stream of fire that Korsak now needed. Eventually, a new round was rammed home by the cursing Androv and, despite the hail of bullets now whistling uncomfortably close by, Korsak calmly lined up the rear tank.

  This time he got his reward. The turret of the last tank had not yet been turned towards them and the shell from the anti-tank rifle found its mark in the ammunition locker. The Panzer simply disintegrated with the force of the resulting explosions. The turret performed a perfect parabola as it flew through the air and crashed into the lake. Voss and the grenadiers were thrown to the ground by the blast and he felt the heat wave surge over him.

  The other tanks, however, were undeterred and co-axial machine guns soon began to sweep the forest edge. Korsak and Androv had to act fast, and his flustered loader struggled to keep up as Korsak switched tactics and ran along the column, putting a disabling shot into each engine compartment.

  Time was now running against the Soviet pair. A high-explosive round barked out of a number two tank and exploded in the edge of the lake, with co-axial machine gun fire from the other tanks ripping through the trees and creeping closer. Korsak signalled to Androv that the time had come to withdraw.

  Voss got to his feet to scan the tree line with his binoculars. He was just in time to witness a Soviet army officer step out from the tree line and take off his cap, revealing a shock of white hair, before bowing deeply and retiring back into the trees.

  As a stream of high-explosive shells crashed into the forest around them, Korsak calmly led the pack horse into the shelter of the trees and, accompanied by the shaking figure of Androv, equally calmly repacked the gun and remaining ammunition, loading everything onto the pack horse. He then untied the two riding horses and handed the reins of one of the horses to a stunned Captain Androv.

  “Two destroyed and four out of action. Not a bad night’s action. Shall we return to the workshop, Comrade Androv?”

  Androv needed no second invitation. His fear had transformed him into a natural horseman and, jumping into the saddle, he cantered off in pursuit of Korsak.

  CHAPTER 3

  DER GEBURSTAG

  All week they had been preparing for the moment of truth. Today was Hitler’s birthday and he had decreed that, on this day, he would choose between the two rival designs for a heavy tank; the long awaited Mark VI.

  The Waffen SS crew led by von Schroif had been allocated to the Henschel prototype machine. Despite an infuriating series of breakdowns, they had successfully put the Henschel through its paces and had easily outscored the army team on the gunnery trials. For convenience, their machine was designated the Mark VI (H), while the rival design was the Mark VI (P). The Porsche prototype was crewed by an army outfit which had been fighting in the Northern sector, up by Leningrad, where, judging by their boasts, they were single-handedly fending off the entire Red Army.

  “So we come to the trial at last, eh?” said von Schroif. “Two machines, but only one contract! The Waffen SS versus the Heer, no holds barred?”

  “I’m afraid not,” replied Arnholdt. “I wish it were that simple, but there will actually be three panzers in the final trial.”

  “Really...? Why three?” Hans had expected something out of the ordinary, but he was taken aback when the identity of the third competitor was revealed to him.

  Just at that moment came the sound of a familiar engine being revved up and Arnholdt pointed towards a small garage-type structure, out of which trundled the familiar shape of the Krupp Panzer Mark IV, but now sporting the long-barrelled 75 mm high-velocity gun.

  “Ah, this must be the much rumoured F2, but it’s a medium tank!” said von Schroif, with a tone of clear disappointment in his voice.

  Knispel and Wohl immediately wandered over and admired the new version of the familiar machine, which now seemed like a stranger with its long-barrelled 75 mm gun. They were soon engaged in conversation with the army crew of the F2, all of whom were highly enthusiastic concerning the new machine.

  “I don’t understand it, Kurt... what’s happening? I thought this was to be a straight trial – the Henschel versus the Porsche... best man wins.”

  “It’s partly your fault, I’m afraid. Due to the number of breakdowns, the Führer is of a mind to cancel the Mark VI project. He feels both designs are still too unreliable.”

  “My fault! Why my fault! You’re the damn engineer, not me!” exploded von Schroif in frustration.

  “Apparently it’s got something to do with an action outside Rostov... On the strength of which, I am given to understand that a certain Hauptsturmführer von Schroif is to be awarded the Knight’s Cross today. He and his crew destroyed twenty Russian tanks in a Panzer IV. Naturally, the Führer is being guided towards the obvious conclusion that there is merit in up-gunning and continuing with the Krupp design. Even I have to admit that it’s probably a match for the T-34.”

  “That’s madness! We don’t want to settle for parity! It’s a fight to the death out there... you want to outgun your opponent! Not match them!” As he spoke, von Schroif glanced around and noticed Knispel returning from his inspection. “Look... it’s like old Knispel here... as a boxer, you want to outreach your opponent. Why have a 75 mm gun when you can have the Acht-acht fitted in a panzer?”

  “I agree with you.” Arnholdt turned and gestured towards the massive bulk of the Mark VI. “But this thing doesn’t come cheap. They’re going to cost 250,000 Reichmarks each! You can have two Mark IVs for the same price, and they require less labour, less raw materials... less time. There are a lot of factors weighing in against us, Hans... but let’s enjoy a moment of joy first, eh? Knights Crosses are not awarded every day. Your crew certainly deserves the recognition.”

  “I don’t care if they awarded me a papal medal. We need this bus at the front! Just who are we fighting here?”

  RSHA Kriminalassistent Walter Lehmann was another man weighing up the factors ranged against him. His situation was different to von Schroif. Walter Lehmann’s enemies actually thought they were his friends. Looking out from his office in Prinz-Albert Strasse, over the rooftops of Berlin on a wet but muggy summer’s day, he could not help but reflect on how he had got here, and how long he would last.

  His stock had surely risen with the accuracy of the information he had provided in the past. He had given them absolute accuracy concerning Kampfgruppe von Schroif. As a source, he must have been vindicated. Surely he couldn’t be blamed by the failure to eliminate von Schroif. Surely that was someone else’s department. Stenner was the man on the ground, he would have to take the blam
e.

  At first, duplicity had come easy to Lehmann, but now the different faces and fronts were becoming more difficult, as were the demands. The uncertainty of it all was beginning to wear down his resolve. Now there was the demand for information about this new heavy tank, and Beria had begun pressing him hard. This wasn’t the kind of information that came easily. He knew he could twist Borgmann round his finger, the poor deluded idiot thought he was doing his bit for the Reich, but collecting the information was one thing, fooling Borgmann into transmitting it from Rastenburg was an altogether more delicate undertaking.

  Despite his increasing unease, he couldn’t help but allow himself a smile. Whatever happened, he, Walter Lehmann, son of the murdered Uwe Lehmann, the former communist street fighter, was now working for the Reich Main Security Office, with executive responsibility for preventing the Soviets spying on the German Armaments industry... The gamekeeper had certainly turned poacher! His late father would have loved the fact that he was now the prime source for the NKVD!

  Yes, it could be funny, and it had its benefits, pecuniary as well as carnal, and he was a man of big appetites! But sometimes the tightrope was strung up so high between his different facades that walking between them gave him vertigo.

  Carrying out the odd interrogation brought its own cathartic rewards. Torturing Nazis gave him a measure of revenge over the death of his father. One day soon he’d get even with the flash aristocratic bastard who had throttled him to death... but for now he was trapped, his daily wish that the Soviets would win this war and, as promised, make him mayor of Berlin. Then the bastards would definitely pay.

  The brown folder bearing the name of von Schroif was so well thumbed that it stood out from the small pile on Lehmann’s desk, but he resisted the urge to flick through it once more. Lehmann hoped that his quarry would live to see the day of reckoning. There was still a chance that he might meet a soldier’s death, trapped in a burning tank, which would be just, but disappointing... Lehmann wanted him to survive, so that he could suffer an agony of medieval tortures.