“Well, go ahead, commander.”
“We call it the Möbelpackwagen.”
There was a long pause. Hitler was obviously unimpressed. Eventually, he spoke. “The furniture van? Oh no, that won’t do at all.”
Hitler paused briefly for thought, and then began again.
“You and your crew have demonstrated this wonderful new German weapon. You fought like tigers at Rostov. You showed tigerish courage when all seemed lost to you. The Mark VI should have a name that befits its predatory nature.” Turning towards a smiling Arnholdt, he announced his decision. “Dr Arnholdt, the Henschel VK 45.01 shall be informally known as the Tiger.” But Hitler wasn’t finished. He turned once more to von Schroif and his crew. “...and you shall be the first of the Tiger men!”
With that, Hitler swept off towards his headquarters, trailing staff officers in his wake.
A stunned von Schroif was faced by the microphone of a Propaganda Kompanie. As the camera whirled away, he began trying to compose rational answers to the questions.
Dimitri Korsak was not in a patient mood. The workshop was going as fast as they could, but he had a score to settle and there was no time to lose. Captain Androv had pulled out all the stops to have a new barrel delivered. The final adjustments to the main gun of the KV-1 were nearing completion. Soon it would be fine-tuned to his satisfaction. The reinforcements had brought his company up to strength, and he still had his line to the divisional artillery. If necessary, he could call upon any amount of firepower, so there was plenty of muscle at his disposal, but caution urged that he use his resources sparingly. The events at Hill 15 outside Rostov had been embarrassingly close to a defeat. This time, there must be no mistake.
It was infuriating that he still did not have a full complement of radio-equipped tanks. He was suspicious that he was not being given the resources that Moscow had promised. If he was being sold short, the reckoning with those responsible would be sudden and vicious, but that was a score to be settled on another day. The facts that took up all of his thoughts were that only two of the tanks at his disposal had the means of both sending and receiving radio communications, twenty-three could receive but not send, and the remaining thirty still used signal flags.
As usual, all the machines provided were T-34 types, whereas Korsak swore by the KV-1. He could have spent time and effort arranging a complex method of intercommunication and response to suit the changing battlefield situation, but he knew he was not working with the finest material; the crews only understood how to advance with dogged courage, and tactical finesse was out of the question in any event. It was obvious that the only real option was to use his superior numbers to bludgeon the enemy into submission. The obvious route was to agree a simple but strict battle plan, and stick to it.
Korsak’s intelligence told him that von Schroif had been transferred back to Germany, which left his old battalion vulnerable to counterattack, but, even with the less than gentle prodding from Moscow, it had taken a week to assemble a strike force. As the ground dried out it was clear that the fascists were going to throw themselves against Rostov once more. Korsak had prevailed in the rough and tumble game of politics, and against the local Russian commander, who had reluctantly weakened his front. He had received the messages from Viper. There was to be another German attempt at Hill 15 with tanks and assault guns. Korsak knew that the German attack would be preceded by a major bombardment lasting two hours, and that the tanks would then advance under a heavy smoke screen.
The attack had twice been postponed due to wind conditions, but as dawn broke the new day promised to be a beautiful still spring morning, and when the first German range-finding shells began to scream into the Soviet position, Korsak sensed that his time had come.
The German bombardment grew in intensity. First it was mortars and infantry guns of increasing calibre, then the 150 mm guns began to add their weight to the barrage. A wall of explosions marked the edge of a ferocious barrage, and the concussion caused by the heaviest shells reached far beyond the front lines to pound the chests of Dimitri Korsak and his waiting attack force. The shocking force of the initial bombardment was unimaginable, but astonishingly it built over the next hour and grew in intensity as more and more batteries joined in. Soon Korsak was able to discern the unmistakable punch of the massive shells from the 210 mm heavy howitzers as they added their fire to the appalling maelstrom of steel and high-explosive. The dirty grey-brown plumes of smoke climbed into the sky and, on this windless morning, towered over the front line like an immense wall of a castle built for giants.
Korsak was disconcerted, but not surprised, when his radio communication with the front line abruptly ceased. Nothing could be expected to survive under a bombardment of such intensity. Still he watched and waited. Finally, as the intense shelling began to overwhelm the senses, there came the gentle plopping sound of smoke shells hitting the soft earth, and a cloud of pure white smoke began to spread from the foot of the brown wall. The time had come. Korsak gave the signal and fifty Soviet tanks began to roll forward into position, just below the crest of the hill which stood between the Russians and the German front lines.
Korsak crept his KV-1 to the crest of the hill; he was now just 2000 metres from the front line. At first the field seemed empty, save for a few Soviet refugees who could be seen crawling back from the bombardment, but as the fire slackened there came the sound of German tank engines. Finally, the shape of a Mark IV emerged from the stillness of the cloud of smoke. It stopped while its machine guns took the fleeing Russians under fire, sending the distant figures of men spinning to the ground. Its stubby main gun spat its message of death towards a further group of fugitives.
Korsak knew that he could potentially destroy the German tank. At this distance, the German had no chance of hitting him. He, on the other hand, with his long-barrelled 76 mm main gun, could destroy the Mark IV, but he chose to wait. The trap had been baited and was now about to be sprung. He smiled grimly to himself as he noted that, on each side of the lead tank, other German tanks were beginning to emerge from the smoke.
“Come on, you fascist bastards, show yourselves. You’ll get what’s coming...” thought Korsak as he watched the events unfold.
He was happy to see that the tanks were soon joined by two squat turretless vehicles, which Korsak recognised as Sturmgeschütz – army assault guns, alert for field defences which might hold up the waves of infantry which Korsak calculated were still hidden by the cloud of smoke. His suspicions were confirmed as the lead Sturmgeschütz was followed by clumps of infantry in camouflage pattern. As yet, there was no sign of the half-tracks carrying more infantry, which Korsak felt sure would follow.
Korsak watched with detached interest as the lead Sturmgeschütz identified the lone Soviet anti-tank gun which remained in action between the front line and Hill 15. It was quickly engaged with high-explosive rounds fired by both assault guns, and the gunners were all too soon thrown to the ground, the distant shapes remaining motionless, killed by deadly shards of shrapnel which flew in all directions. Through his powerful binoculars Korsak could discern the faint pools of dark red blood which widened as the prone bodies were crushed under the wheels of the advancing Sturmgeschütz. He could easily have destroyed the Sturmgeschütz through its weak roof armour, but still Korsak did nothing and the German tanks began to advance warily across the open ground. He counted them: five, seven, eleven. This was it, the fascist attack had begun.
Unable to resist any longer, Korsak ordered his gunner to take careful aim on the lead German tank, which was now little more than 1200 metres away. The gun was already loaded and the armour-piercing round barked out, but frustratingly flew over the German tank.
Korsak cursed the gunner. “Aim lower, you cretin! Or you’ll end up in a punishment battalion!”
His tank was expertly concealed behind the crest of the hill, but Korsak knew only too well that his position had now been given away by the tell-tale puff of smoke and his gunner’s
carelessness. There was no time for a second round as, according to plan, on seeing his tank fire, the first wave of Russian tanks began to charge up the slope and over the crest of the hill. Although his own tank was still motionless, he had ordered all of his tanks to load with armour-piercing and, on his signal, the first wave of ten tanks had broken cover and charged towards the German forces.
As expected, the German tanks came to a halt as soon as the T-34s emerged from over the brow of the hill. With the advantage of their static position, the German tanks were able to fire accurately, but Korsak was confident that his tanks would not suffer at these ranges, and he had other things to occupy his mind. He gave the order to pull out while continuing to observe the battlefield.
Korsak was stunned to see four T-34s explode into flames as the massive impact of the armour-piercing rounds stopped the lead tanks dead and further rounds found a home in the ammunition lockers of the stricken T-34s. The first victims were shortly followed into oblivion by a further two tanks.
Korsak was mystified. There was only one tank commander who was capable of such a feat. “Was von Schroif still here?”
Despite the loss of six tanks, Korsak remained confident that his superior numbers assured him of victory. The trap had been sprung, and he watched over his shoulder as his next wave and a further ten tanks advanced over the hill and into combat.
The plan was clearly working. Korsak expected his opponents to stay pinned in position while they engaged the Soviet armour frontally. His well-constructed plan was to lead the remaining thirty tanks around the hill in order to engage the Germans on their flank. Korsak urged his driver to turn right and stay below the crest of the hill. The battle plan was now underway, and there was no way to change it. Korsak knew that, by closing to such a short range, his two leading waves of tanks would become vulnerable to the German tank guns, which would become more and more effective as the range closed. He expected losses, but six in short order gave him grounds for concern.
Korsak could hear the declining sounds of firing and the sound of tanks being hit by armour-piercing rounds, but the die was now cast as he and the other thirty tanks raced around the contour of the hill, preparing to burst triumphantly into the flank of their enemy. He calculated that his tanks would be around 800 metres from the German machines, and firing into the weak side armour guaranteed a kill.
As he rounded the corner of the hill the slower KV-1 was joined by the faster moving T-34s, arrayed below him and to his right. Gathering speed, they rolled onto the plain and slowly came to a halt in firing positions on the German flank. It was then that Korsak realised that he had a problem.
The T-34 nearest to the smoke cloud suddenly burst into flame. The sound of the gun which had fired at the T-34 was drowned out by the noise of the continuing bombardment which had now been lifted to the slopes of Hill 15, otherwise Korsak would instantly have realised the magnitude of his predicament. The destruction of the first T-34 was quickly followed by five more machines which were all blown apart in a matter of seconds.
Korsak was stunned. To his left he could see the carcasses of all twenty T-34s, but there were no German tanks on the field, nothing, not even a wreck. He could see from the track marks that the German tanks had all withdrawn into the bank of smoke.
Something was wrong... the German tanks had the field, but they had withdrawn. The attack must have been a feint. Quickly, Korsak gave the order to withdraw. Those tanks with radio receivers immediately began to leave the field. Flags were being waved frantically to the others, which one by one began to withdraw. As the smoke began to clear the source of the danger became all too apparent. Korsak’s worst fears were vindicated.
Under cover of the smoke, a battery of 88 mm anti-aircraft guns had been expertly pulled into position. The destructive power had come from the mighty Acht-acht. His situation was now desperate. The fleeing Soviet machines offered an easy rear shot, and the greedy Acht-achts were quick to find their targets.
Voss watched in grim satisfaction as his boys destroyed the fleeing Russian armour. He was distracted as a group of grenadiers passed and SS-Sturmscharführer Braun stepped out of the ranks and gave the stiff-armed salute.
“May I offer my congratulations on your victory? This White Devil is more of a puppy dog, I’d say.”
Voss smiled. “It’s not my victory, its revenge for our recovery boys that bastard mutilated. Make sure everyone knows that the planning was by Hauptsturmführer von Schroif. His legacy lives on in his absence.”
“I’ll make sure the inhuman pigs continue to pay. The untermensch will learn. We look forward to the return of the Haupsturmführer.”
“So do I, Braun. We’ll need him soon.” Voss made a mental note to commend von Schroif on the effectiveness of the battle plan that he had drawn up.
The mutilated recovery team had been avenged, and the scores were now even, but this vicious war was becoming more and more barbaric by the day.
CHAPTER 4
PADERBORN
“Paderborn?” asked Bobby Junge.
“After the birthplace of the River Pader,” replied Karl Wendorff. “The river originates in nearly 200 springs near Paderborn Cathedral, last resting place of St Liborius, the Patron Saint of a good death.”
“Obviously not on the side of Brommann and his recovery team,” said Michael Knispel in a sad tone. “Nothing could ever make up for that.”
“The word is that old man Voss, with the help of the boss here, gave them a heavy punishment in return,” said Wohl, trying to lighten the atmosphere.
“SS-Scharführer Brommann would have thanked you both for it. He was a great friend of mine. Boy, could he drink beer,” said Knispel, warming to his subject.
“Yes, I know. He was at KAMA with me. He was a good man, but he was suddenly sent home... some incident I never quite got to the bottom of. He didn’t speak much. He certainly didn’t deserve to die like that. It’s not over, it’s unfinished business.”
“I bet he didn’t go quietly,” said Knispel, “not old Brommann.”
“So this Laborious, how did he die?” asked Bobby Junge, turning the subject away from the horror of what had happened to the tank recovery team outside Rostov.
“In the arms of his best friend,” replied Karl Wendorff, his voice trailing off as the powerful image evoked by his answer struck him.
All went quiet. Von Schroif gazed out of the train window at the beautifully tended countryside of North Rhine-Westphalia, a view that gave no hint of the carnage that was enveloping the entire world, but a view that reinforced his deeply held conviction that this Germany, this land, these people, were worth upholding. Yes, even to the death, but, for now at least, he had no intention of dying, nor did any of his crew, and that was why they were headed to Paderborn. It was there at the Panzer training grounds that they would get to know their new machine, its likes and dislikes, its temper and its power. Once known, they could then ride into battle with a confidence probably never even dreamed of by any warrior in any age, but it wasn’t going to be an easy introduction.
After arriving at Paderborn, the crew headed straight to their quarters and snatched at what little sleep they could.
Dimitri Korsak was in a dilemma. He sat poised over the typewriter, but no words came. All around him were the intrusive sounds of frantic repairs as the few survivors of the second battle for Hill 15 were made ready for a return to the field. The clash of metal and shouts of the battalion workshop intruded on his thoughts and made it impossible to concentrate. Even with this handful of survivors, the unpalatable fact remained that he had lost forty tanks in the second debacle around Hill 15, and his reputation as the best tank commander on the Eastern Front was now sure to come under scrutiny.
Captain Androv, however, was now an evangelist, telling everyone who would listen about their adventures with the anti-tank rifle, but this wasn’t a game of cowboys and Indians, that was small-scale stuff. Korsak now needed a big and unambiguous victory. His special stan
ding in Moscow was now under threat.
He desperately cast around for a positive angle to add to his story. Eventually, the mixture of half-truth and lies emerged. He had thwarted a major German attack and he could just about spin the story around that, but why had his own attack failed? The 88 mm, of course. It was a deadly tank killer. “Thank God the fascists can’t mount that in their tanks!”
Korsak began to type:
The fascist forces, reputed to be a force of over 150 tanks, supported by a preparatory artillery barrage of army-level intensity, attempted to break through in the Mendov Hill Sector. I managed to bring together a force of 50 T-34 tanks and threw the machines into battle in order to thwart the attack, which led to heavy losses. I personally led the flanking attack which halted the fascist tanks and caused them to withdraw into their smoke barrage.
The fascist advance was completely halted by the courage and sacrifice of the tanks under my command. Further losses were incurred before the fascists were forced to withdraw, leaving us the victors. I was able to gather my machines. All losses were caused not by fire from the fascist tanks, but from 88 mm anti-aircraft guns, whose deployment had been concealed by the smoke barrage.
Initially, it was thought that our losses were caused by a new type of armour-piercing projectile. However, there is now a real danger that the 88 mm will be mounted in a new generation of tank, the possession of which would pose enormous difficulties on the battlefield. The disappearance from the battlefield of von Schroif and his crew needs to be investigated and reported upon by Viper.”
“Good morning, gentlemen,” boomed the voice, snapping awake the recently-risen crew. “Your steed has arrived! Now, let’s get started! I am Major Jurgen Rondorf.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Herr Major,” offered von Schroif.
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