Tiger Command!

by Bob Carruthers

  “How was the fishing? Catch anything?”

  “Only this...” retorted von Schroif, tossing a piece of hairy, blood-encrusted partisan skull.

  “Ah! Lunch... How would you like it? Rare or medium?”

  “I’ll skip lunch, if that’s OK with you,” said von Schroif.

  The two men gazed at the wreckage of the bridge. Stankov and his team had certainly done a thorough job.

  “Well, there’s a bit of a problem. It’s nearly two metres deep. The place where the ‘White Devil’ appeared is about 700 metres that way,” said List, pointing to the other side of the river.

  “As long as the banks are capable of supporting the weight, we’ll be OK,” replied von Schroif.

  “So your tanks are submarines too?”

  “In a way, yes... We can travel submerged up to three metres.”

  “Well, you learn something new every day!” said List.

  “The Tiger is quite a machine, designed by an old friend of mine. The wide tracks give it very low ground pressure... so it can go places where a Mark IV can’t... and it can certainly go anywhere a KV-1 can...”

  “Are you asking for permission to follow the tracks of a certain KV-1?”

  “I am, sir.”

  “Permission granted.”

  Back at the railhead, the four Tigers, after a quick inspection, were refuelled and ready for the short journey north to the supply point. Initially, things went well. Bobby Junge reported the engine to be running smoothly, the track they drove on seemed firm and substantial, and the crew’s morale was boosted by the cheers and good wishes they heard from every group of infantrymen they passed.

  “What confidence these new Tigers give our soldiers!” thought Michael Knispel, commanding the tank in von Schroif’s absence, and now eagerly anticipating the coming engagement. In fact, he began to feel a surging wave of great confidence and pride, which began to encourage dangerous notions that these new tanks may somehow be decisive, and that they had the power to transform and save!

  “No, no, no,” thought Knispel to himself. “Never allow your thoughts to travel along these beguiling roads... how dare he dream such dreams! These were the dreams of the vain – glorious – and the soon to be deceased...”

  So he reprimanded himself and returned to the time-honoured tradition of studying the landscape, the details of which were quite delightful. The sun-dappled trees and shimmering streams, the entire landscape bathed in a warm, soothing late-August light.

  “Great hunting country! When this is all over...” Knispel thought to himself, “I must return.”

  His reverie was soon broken when he rounded the next bend to be greeted by the gun-metal grey and standard-issue camouflage netting of the supply area, carved out of the forest as if with some great steel clearing shovel. Knispel snapped back into attention. This was where the training took over. He could hear Bobby Junge lower the rpm, which was correct when approaching any assembly point. He noticed the grenadiers out concealing previous track marks into the area, which was again correct procedure, and he followed the signs assigning his tank to the correct location. Correct, correct, correct.

  Then Junge manoeuvred the tank, amidst all those admiring eyes, under the nearest tree. Correct. Knispel made sure the turret was traversed to the side, so Junge and Wendorff could conveniently climb out through their hatches. They then set about removing the track marks and concealed the tank with branches and netting. Knispel then quickly reconnoitred the immediate area, checking for anti-aircraft spotters. These men would give alarm if any enemy aircraft were spotted. Best to know who and where they were.

  According to the rules, the entire crew carried their individual weapons. In the event of a surprise artillery barrage, they also carried their steel helmets. Off to the right, Knispel could make out the supply vehicles gathering. Everything they were to need should be aboard those vehicles. Knispel did not need to tell Bobby Junge to carry out any essential maintenance and to help replenish the tank, he had already started!

  Knispel had one last quick look at the land and sky surrounding them and then went off to find the cookhouse and sniff out the possibility of a bottle of beer. “All is well,” he thought, noticing crews busy and some resting, others occupying alert position at the edge of the woods in case of enemy attack. Before he could get on to his mission, the Kübelwagen bearing List and von Schroif swept up to him.

  “Ah, Knispel, just the man... Our reconnaissance is, how shall we say, lacking its usual comprehensiveness. Not surprising, given the unexpected events we have just encountered, but it does seem, even from the confirmed reports, that an old friend of ours is lurking nearby.”

  “The White Devil, sir?”

  “Got it in one, SS-Hauptscharführer. Time to go hunting!”

  CHAPTER 11

  ROLLBAHN OST

  Elvira had little difficulty in fording the narrow river. The snorkel device worked perfectly, and they were soon at the spot 700 metres to the north where KV-1 tracks led off into the forest.

  “Anywhere they go, we can go too,” said Junge with confidence. “You can see what type of an opponent we are dealing with though. This is more like a rally.”

  “Good. We all know a single tank should not be doing this, but the prize makes it worthwhile. We head straight to the rollbahn, and we destroy as many enemy vehicles as possible. Understood?”

  “Jawohl, Haupsturmführer!”

  The journey through the forest was difficult and challenging in the extreme, but the deep track marks left by the KV-1 meant their route was unmistakable, and eventually they emerged from the trees, the Soviet-held rollbahn stretching in front of them from right to left. It rose gently upward toward the left, and disappeared behind high ground after about 1,200 metres. To the right, it ran flat and true for a distance of 3,000 metres. They were just taking up a position facing east when von Schroif’s observation was interrupted by an unwelcome message.

  “Oil pressure is very low, sir. I think we may have an engine problem,” reported Bobby Junge. “Permission to check, sir?”

  “Go ahead, Junge. Everyone else, keep vigilant.”

  While the others kept an all-round watch, Bobby Junge busied himself with the engine. He had only just begun to open the engine hatches when, very faintly, in the distance, came the sound of what sounded like voices singing. Slowly, the noise got louder, and gradually started to mix with the sound of tank tracks.

  It was Otto Wohl who first identified the source – a long line of Soviet tanks, each carrying a contingent of desyanti tank riders. This far behind the front, the Russian infantrymen were in relaxed mood, and passed the journey by bellowing their way through a favourite folk melody.

  Through his binoculars, von Schroif identified the first tanks – T-34s. The engine would have to wait. As quick as lightning, every man was back in his place. Knispel began to swivel the turret to bring it to bear on the first tank.

  The Soviets rolled on, singing merrily, and didn’t take any notice of the lone tank by the roadside, assuming it was a broken-down prototype vehicle. They certainly weren’t counting on any form of enemy contact.

  Wohl had an armour-piercing round loaded, and Knispel had his first target lined up. The firing couldn’t start fast enough for him. Given half a chance, he would have been happy to ask Junge to ram them, so that he could let his fists do the talking. Knispel expected the order to start firing at any moment, but von Schroif remained silent.

  The tanks rolled closer and closer. 700 metres, 600 metres, 500 metres. The singing grew louder. Knispel was convinced they would be discovered, but there was still no sign of concern from the Russians. How steely was his commander – in nerve and resolve! At last, with the lead T-34 just 100 metres away, the order came.

  “Open fire!”

  The mighty Acht-acht of the Tiger barked into life for the first time in anger, and the lead T-34 was simply blown apart by the huge kinetic force of the impact. The round must have found its mark in th
e ammunition, as an almost simultaneous explosion hurled the maimed figures of the desyanti in all directions.

  The singing stopped abruptly, and it was now that the benefit of holding their fire came into its own. The rear of the column was so close that there was no need to revolve the turret. As soon as Wohl had rammed the shell home, Knispel was able to aim and fire. Even at 600 metres, the Acht-acht simply ripped the T-34 apart. As Knispel worked his way down the column, Wendorff was busy with the hull machine gun, spraying the fugitives with fire. The surviving Russian infantry scattered to the opposite rollbahn.

  None of the T-34s escaped Elvira’s wrath, and Knispel felt a surge of power. Now he was on equal terms, and there was no stopping him.

  Bobby Junge had spent the entire combat waiting for the order to start the engine. He fretted about the battery which powered the firing button of the Acht-acht and traversed the turret. He thought hard about the likely source of the oil pressure drop, and the danger of fire if the oil was collecting in the sump. He wanted this action to be over quickly, and his prayers were soon answered. The main gun stopped firing. There were no more targets left. Eighteen T-34s lay smouldering on the rollbahn, and the few survivors from among the desyanti were keeping their heads well down.

  “Can you take us home, SS-Panzerschütze Junge?”

  “It might be a slow journey, and we may have to stop a few times to top up with oil... but I think we can do it.”

  “Well, Elvira has had her baptism of fire... so her well-wishers must be entitled to a beer,” added von Schroif.

  “I’ll drink to that, sir,” laughed Wohl.

  “OK then, let’s roll!” said von Schroif.

  “So, now you are even.” said Major List. “That’s the kind of report to warm the cockles of the heart.”

  “Well, not quite even, because there was no sign of the Weisse Teufel. It will only be when he dies that we are even. However, I do not think that moment is too far off. I get the feeling he’ll be waiting for us when we make the main attack.”

  “Which I am ordered is to be a mission to take an unoccupied and exposed village,” replied the Major, at which the two men exchanged meaningful glances.

  An exposed target like this village was not the easy picking it was at the start of the campaign. The Soviets had learned, and so had the German soldier, the hard way. In 1941 there had been some easy targets, sometimes too easy, but as the war had progressed, so had Soviet tactics. Red Army fanatics sometimes stayed behind deliberately, so that their positions could be overrun and they could then launch attacks into the German rear and other devilish snares. It was this possibility which both commanders wordlessly exchanged with that knowing glance. The village had been deliberately left exposed as a trap.

  “I will take all possibilities into account and approach with great caution,” offered von Schroif.

  “I think that would be the wisest course of action,” replied List.

  “We know the Tiger packs a punch, but we haven’t seen one take a punch yet. Now, with regard to conditions... Don’t be fooled. This may look like the kind of dry and firm ground that is ideal for heavy vehicles, but believe me, the whole area is a morass of peat bogs, the largest of which you are going to have to traverse to reach your target. Don’t be taken in by the clement weather either, these things retain their moisture and sponginess all year round. I presume you were able to put the new tank through its paces in conditions at Paderborn which simulated terrain like this?”

  Von Schroif hesitated, not wishing to denigrate the training course or its instructors. Exhaustive though it was, the course at Paderborn had not covered every eventuality.

  “I can tell by your hesitation that you are not going to answer in the affirmative, Hauptsturmführer. Still, the role of any commander is to adapt to new conditions and circumstances, is it not?” asked Major List, trying to finalise the conversation on as positive note as possible.

  From his vantage point high above the hamlet, Dimitri Korsak could see through his binoculars the column snaking slowly through the woods. He was sure his identification was correct, but he rechecked the drawings in front of him just in case – and then a feeling of jubilation came upon him! Yes, the four lead tanks were definitely the Tigers. They were supported by six Panzerkampfwagen IIIs, a couple of companies of infantry, and some other trucks... probably support personnel.

  He smelled fruition. However, this last phase had to be meticulous. He knew never to underestimate his foe. No point in sending in the T-34s now. Save them for later, use the artillery now. Let them reach the soft ground, pin them down.

  “How stupid,” he thought. If he, Dimitri Korsak, could spot weaknesses in the design drawings of these new tanks, how could the engineers who built them not spot them too? Imagine thinking that Mother Russia, with all her features and stature, could be contained and tamed within the scribblings of some fascist engineers?

  It reminded him of 1939 and the German liaison officer in Moscow gifting the Soviets a Panzer Mk III. Boasting about its prowess! “What did we do? We sent it to the GABTU proving ground and laughed at it! The arrogance of these people!”

  Hans von Schroif was nervous. He didn’t quite know why. This should be the crowning point of his career. The prestige of leading out the pride of German armour should have left him feeling invincible, but strangely he felt a little vulnerable. That wasn’t because of the terrain, which would suit any attacker who held the high ground off and up to his right. Nor was it because he was exposed – Hans von Schroif kept the hatch open, only occasionally buttoning up when a battle was at its fiercest. No, it was neither of these – it was intuition, and, however wonderful a quality, it lacked the certainty of other forms of knowledge. It never announced what was going to happen and when. It was far too vague for that. All one knew was that something was going to happen, and all one could do was be prepared.

  Suddenly he started to feel the ground get softer and, rather alarmingly, when Bobby Junge manoeuvred to avoid a tree in front of them, he could feel certain unresponsiveness in the tank’s handling. He motioned to the tanks behind him to take the ground into account. It was then that he knew. They wouldn’t be attacked now. They would only be attacked when the last of the tanks was on the softer ground.

  He then had a flash of being in his opponent’s mind and he was immediately reminded of the last time this had happened. The eyes, the white hair, the hands making the shape of a gun... “Snap out of it, Hans! Concentrate!”

  He was right to do so. Suddenly, he sensed there was indeed the suspicion of muzzle-flashes on the extreme edge of his peripheral vision, and those were what his eyes were straining for. This was one of the reasons he rarely buttoned up inside the tank, eyes before ears! The light of a muzzle-flash would reach him well before the sound of any firing, but where had it come from?

  Hans put himself in the mind of the Russian commander. He has two options; proceed with an attack either from the village, or the high ground off to the east. The high ground was the obvious option, but the most astute commanders rarely used the most obvious option. In that case, he would open up from the hamlet, draw us in, and then let us have it from the high ground. Therefore...

  But before he had time to work out a counter-strategy, Hans saw the bright, brief and unmistakable burst of a muzzle-flash. From the village, the house on the right! Michael had seen it too, as he had been measuring the fire control, pressing left and right, waiting for the order to fire. Then a massive thud! The tank shook. Then another... and then another... and again and again... Hans jumped back into the tank. Bang! Bang! Concussive blow after concussive blow! Otto swore he could almost hear shells spinning and burring their way into the tank.

  “Achtung! One o’clock! 1,400 metres. HE!” shouted Hans.

  Knispel could barely hear von Schroif’s voice above the din and deafening crashes. He immediately slammed his foot on the turret traverse. The turret swung to the right. With his left hand he set the range on the sight, th
e whole tank now reverberating, a cacophony of crashing metal.

  Again and again, Knispel, like every other crew member, felt stupefied and dazed, like someone had taken out his skull and started using it as a drum, but through his assaulted senses he still managed to crank the elevation hand wheel with his right hand... the target came into view...

  “Ready... Release safety... Fire!”

  And up it went, the explosion sending the two bodies of a PATR crew into the air, one landing and remaining immobile, the other grotesquely attempting to stand on one leg, falling, and trying to crawl, but there was no time to consider such sideshows.

  “Achtung! 11 o’clock, 1,300 metres. HE!” shouted Hans again, and Knispel, through the smoke, smell of cordite, and the shriek of steel, went through the methodical but precise procedure of swinging round the turret and finding his next target, and then the next... and the next... taking out every anti-tank gun and PATR position in that damned hamlet, one by one...

  Hans could tell by the amount of fire that was pounding the village that the other three Tigers had adopted exactly the same strategy.

  “Stop. Measure. Use your brains, pick your target, fire, and then repeat and repeat again...”

  It may have been slower than the blizzard of shelling coming from the hamlet, but the fire from the Tigers was effective! Within five minutes, any offensive capabilities of the Ivans had been reduced to twisted, smoking wreckage.

  Then it suddenly occurred to him – what had happened to any Soviet forces that may have been on the hill to the east? But before he had time to process this last thought, another muzzle-flash – this time in the trees behind the hamlet. “Damn! Out of range! We are going to have to go in!”