Hans von Schroif had Karl Wendorff radio the infantry and support wagons to have them stay where they were. He then ordered the four Tigers to split into two groups of two, each pair to traverse opposite paths round the hamlet. Bobby slowly started moving her forward, picking up speed, everything going smoothly – what a joy of a machine! – but no sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he could feel the engine straining and the tracks start to slip.
“Haupsturmführer, we have a problem, sir. Behind us.”
Hans swivelled round in his cupola and saw, to his horror, the trailing tank spew smoke and stutter to a halt.
“Overheating!” explained Knispel.
“Halt!” shouted Hans to Bobby Junge, who immediately obeyed.
“There’s no point in continuing,” thought von Schroif miserably to himself. He couldn’t leave the tank stranded... There were always many courses of action and many outcomes, but one particular outcome was unthinkable – allowing a new Tiger to fall into the hands of the Soviets. It was either going to have to be defended until reinforcements arrived and it was towed back to the workshop area, or repaired...
“Panzeroberschütze Wendorff, get me Hauptscharführer Rubbal.”
“No need, Hauptsturmführer,” came the calm and reassuring reply, “...he is on his way!”
Hans looked up and over the trail they had just travelled down and saw a Kübelwagen hurtling towards them! “Brave man!” thought Hans. It wasn’t just the front line that had its share of heroes!
Hans von Schroif turned and surveyed the hamlet again for any change in the situation, but the guns had fallen silent and the whole sector seemed quiet. “What was happening?” He should at least be hearing his other two Tigers...
“Have the other two Tigers report to me, Wendorff.”
Hans could hear the tone of the conversation without hearing the exact words, and it alarmed him. Karl Wendorff conveyed the bad news. “Immobile. Both of them. Transmission problems.”
“Damn!” thought von Schroif, cursing this new circumstance. “Could things get any worse?”
And then they did... The entire hill off to his east seemed to light up with a series of sequential flashes. The tell-tale trails of smoke streaking across the sky told their own story; Katyushas! Hans von Schroif threw himself back into the tank, buttoned up, and waited for the storm that was about to be unleashed.
The thunder struck again. The crew was violently thrown about as rocket after rocket screamed through the air, crashing into the tank and the ground around it. On and on it went. Each and every single one of them thinking, believing, for there was no evidence to the contrary, that their next breath would be their last. All they could do was pray that it would end soon. Every single one of them had the same nightmarish vision, the same supreme fear, that the next rocket was going to be the one that broke through and roasted them alive...
Hans was burdened not only by this nightmarish vision, but by another. A burden shared by all good commanders – a total humiliation. He had failed, letting down his country, his unit, his crew and himself. The next explosion would surely eviscerate him and his crew, and take any reputation he had with him... but the next rocket did not break through, nor the one after that, nor even the one after that.
Finally, it did, after all, come to an end. It left an endless ringing in the ears and a stunned silence, followed by a radio message from the following Tiger that Hauptscharführer Rubbal was on his way and, a few seconds later, by a knock on the hatch.
“Hauptsturmführer! Don’t shoot! Hauptsturmführer von Schroif... it’s me... Hauptscharführer Rubbal.”
Without having fully returned to his senses, Hans gingerly pushed open the hatch. He was greeted by the smiling face of SS-Hauptscharführer Rubbal.
“Rubbal, how on earth did you manage to survive that in a Kübelwagen?”
“I did... but the Kübelwagen didn’t. The crew behind me was kind enough to offer me shelter. Is everything alright, Hauptsturmführer...? You look shaken.”
Hans von Schroif was not a man taken to crude shows of affection, but he jumped up out of the hatch and hugged the gnarly figure of Hauptscharführer Rubbal. As he embraced the stunned engineer, wild thoughts ran through his brain. “Defeat, death, humiliation! How dare he allow the notion to enter his mind. This tank’s astonishing resilience, its highly-engineered ability to withstand the worst the Soviets could throw at it, this... this... changed everything...”
“I’m afraid the engine’s overheated,” stated the Hauptscharführer, pointing to the immobilised tank behind them. “Unfortunately, there is not much that I can do here. We need to get it back to the workshop area, so that I can attempt some real work on it.”
“Along with the other two,” smiled Hans von Schroif.
“You mean...?”
“Yes, SS-Hauptscharführer, you are presently perched on the only active Tiger on the Eastern Front! However, if it is your assessment that repairs cannot be effected here, then it is best that you return to the workshop area and wait for us there. You are too valuable to be endangered out here.”
“I need to. I’ve got to get together the resources to tow three stricken tanks, Hauptsturmführer. I don’t know how I’ll do it yet, sir, but don’t worry, I soon will!”
Hauptscharführer Rubbal was a wonderfully reassuring man to have on the team. Many times Hans von Schroif had found himself in so-called impossible situations, and each time Hauptscharführer Rubbal had managed to extricate not just the tank, but the crew too. Many times there was not even a germ of an idea as to how he would achieve it, just certain knowledge that it could be done.
It was now an act of faith in Rubbal. Each of the Tigers was equipped with a purpose-designed demolition charge, fitted by the commander’s hatch, and von Schroif was determined not to use it. He believed in Rubbal, he believed in the Möbelpackwagen, he believed in his crew, and he believed in himself.
Dimitri Korsak was another man possessed of strong reserves of self-belief. However, his first impression of what these new Tigers had just survived, almost an entire arsenal of anti-tank weaponry, was galling. These were not the usual flimsy fascist toys, built along the usual German lines, paying attention to the comfort of their crew. These were powerful and formidable foes. How on earth was he going to deal with them? He had no option; he was going to have to send in the T-34s he had requisitioned from Meretskov.
Even though the system of mental fortifications he had constructed around his own abilities and self-belief were ironclad, a tiny stray and unwelcome thought slipped past its well-guarded perimeter and into his brain. What if the T-34s, with their 400 metre range disparity, could not get close enough? Even if they did get close enough and, worse still, were unable to silence the monsters, then their failure would be his failure. He knew exactly what the consequences of that would be.
There were too many unknowns here, and Meretskov had not allocated him all the T-34s he had asked for, but he could not go back to Beria and complain about the lack of support and the uncooperative behaviour of Meretskov. He had been given a task – capture at least one of the Tigers for evaluation – and the task was given to him on the presumption that he would carry it out. Of all the options open to him, failure was not one of them.
Hans von Schroif surveyed the heights, looking for the slightest movement, but saw none. How would this game of chess play out? What options were open to the Soviet commander? He couldn’t move his artillery any closer. There had been no indication of Soviet air superiority, so any threat from the air could be shunted back down the list of probabilities. So that left retreat, tanks – did he have any armoured support? – or something else. There was always something else...
However, Hans could, he felt, also allow himself the luxury of thinking that the Soviets had run out of alternatives. Had things not changed demonstrably? For the first time since the first days of Barbarossa, he could honestly say that he felt at an advantage, as a result of this fine new tank. Th
e 88 mm gun and the extra armour gave him a new confidence.
Then he corrected himself. How many dead men believed themselves to have an advantage just before the final blow came? And so he returned to thinking about what that “something else” the Soviet Commander may have up his sleeve might be.
“SS-Panzeroberschütze Wendorff, order the Mark IIIs to escort the SS-Hauptscharführer back to the assembly area. Have the infantry go with them, but order them to double back and take up a position below that last ridge.”
Hans then turned his attention back to the hamlet, unable to filter out the cries and screams of the wounded, who still lay unattended. “No German soldier would ever be treated like this,” he thought to himself. Despite these considerations, the operational aspect of this hamlet and the area behind it played on his mind. There was at least one emplacement in the trees behind it, but, with three tanks inactive, did it justify the risk of moving off through this marshy ground?
In the end, he rationalised it down to this... Transmission and engine failure – these were the factors that a good crew and especially a good driver held some sway over – these were not accidents of fate or design – these were the responsibilities of the crew. So, this was the question – did he have enough faith in his crew to justify any further offensive action?
“SS-Panzerschütze, we are going for a short drive. Take her up to 4,000 rpm. 12 o’clock!”
“Jawohl!” chirped Bobby, never happier than when they were on the move. Moving out, they were just picking up speed when Hans noticed a machine gun crew popping up from what appeared to be a slit trench. And then another. And another. One had to admire the guts – or was it the stupidity? – of these Soviets. Did they have any idea of what they were facing? He wasn’t interested in these positions though, his focus was on the artillery emplacement behind them. Hans pulled down the hatch and prepared himself. He could see Otto readying the co-axial machine gun.
“SS-Panzerschütze, save the ammunition. The tracks will take care of them.”
The tank then sped up, heading straight for the trench. The machine guns opened up, but harmless would be too strong a word to describe their effect as they popped off the Tiger’s steel shell like so many bits of cracked wheat. One of the machine gun crews then upped and ran from the trench, only for a fusillade of shots to ring out from behind them, cutting them down as a sign of brutal Soviet discipline.
Bobby could make out the look of fear on the remaining Soviet soldiers’ faces as he barrelled the tank towards them. “Why,” he thought to himself, “did the Ivans believe that a shallow dirt trench would offer any kind of protection?” He had done this many times, come to a halt over the trench, spun the tank, and just ground the poor bastards back into Mother Earth, and turned them into beer! He smiled at the gruesome symmetry of it. Anyway, Elvira needed to be blooded...
Just as he approached the trench, he hit the brakes and spun her around. Even through the hull, he heard the pitiful screams of the first machine gun crew as they were turned to bloody mush beneath him.
“No! No! No!” cried Hans.
Bobby looked up at him in confusion.
“Twelve o’clock,” shouted von Schroif, referring to the original order.
Now made well aware that his manoeuvre had left them side-on and track-exposed to a potentially deadly piece of Soviet artillery, Junge knew exactly what to do. “Knispel!” he shouted, and spun the tank around, taking into account which angle the barrel was at, and the previous position of the Soviet artillery.
From years of fighting and training together, Knispel knew exactly what Junge was about to do. This was going to require the utmost precision... Through his sights he could see the tank spin around through 90 degrees, saw the artillery piece come into view, and then let loose... A split second later, the high-explosive round caused a massive explosion, followed by a ball of fire which consumed man and machine. Quickly refocusing, he could see no immediate movement, save for the sickening sight of a Soviet gunner staggering into the distance, his entire body aflame. Knispel looked away, not through disgust, but simple expediency. Years of experience had taught him this one brutal lesson... this is war and war is hell.
“I am sorry, SS-Hauptsturmführer,” Junge said to von Schroif.
“The fault is mine, SS-Panzerschütze Junge. My order should have been clearer. You did well.”
Von Schroif chided himself. Any ambiguity in commands came from him, and was his responsibility. He could not, with any clear conscience, blame his crew if the target, as in this case, had not been made explicit. Anyway, even if Junge had been at fault, he had taken it upon himself to remedy the situation. No more could be asked.
Hans von Schroif then opened the hatch to reevaluate the situation. Ivan held the high ground, but his artillery had proved ineffectual at that distance. But did he have any tanks? Would he wait until dark before sending any infantry in?
Von Schroif then considered his own situation. Three tanks down. Isolated. Should he evacuate the crews and return with reinforcements and recovery vehicles? That would be like handing the Tigers over to the Soviets without a fight. Should they stay and consolidate? For all the mechanical problems these new tanks were exhibiting, they had proved themselves in terms of their defensive and armour capabilities. There was only one real option. They would stay and see off whatever Ivan could throw at them! Rubbal and the Famos would soon find him!
So how was he going to organise this consolidation? His plan was simple. Tow the Tiger behind him over to the two other Tigers, spin the other two around until they were facing the hill to their right flank, and then hull-down and wait for Ivan! The idea appealed to von Schroif, particularly for its simplicity, but there was one problem. Regulations prohibited the towing of one Tiger by another, due to potential overheating of the towing Tiger’s engine, which could lead to breakdown or fire.
To von Schroif there was a higher principle though – Mission Command, or Aufstragstaktik. This tactical freedom, enshrined in the German Army since the previous century, allowed the commander on the ground – within his overall objective – the freedom to improvise to a degree unrecognisable in nearly any other army. This, reasoned von Schroif, gave him the freedom to break this particular regulation and proceed with his objective.
Suddenly liberated from his previous dilemma, he felt a personal pleasure any commander or leader would recognise, having come up with a solution to a seemingly intractable problem. It was warm and affirmative and allowed the freedom to concentrate fully on the newly-decided strategy. One remaining piece of the new strategy needed attention though – were there any remaining artillery pieces in or close to the hamlet? And was it capable of being reinforced?
“Wendorff, order the grenadier captain to send in troops to flush out the hamlet of any remaining enemy resistance. We also require some scouts up on the hill on our right flank.”
Von Schroif then ordered the other tank commanders to prepare for towing. Emerging into the cool evening air, he could see, off to his right, the two crews also emerge. Then he heard a crack and saw one of his tankers slump forward.
“Snipers! Wendorff, relay!”
As Wendorff passed on von Schroif’s message, von Schroif himself reflected on the first time he had come across this tactic. Soviet snipers in orchard trees on the long dusty road to Leningrad, staying behind at supreme personal sacrifice in order to pick off commanders like himself, who preferred not to be buttoned up inside their tanks.
“Knispel! Find that damned rifle of yours!”
“Wendorff! Tell the grenadiers they have a third mission! Snipers in the trees at the foot of the hill.”
As soon as he had barked out these new orders, von Schroif reconsidered the situation. Plan A – towing the immediate Tiger into a hull-down defensive position near the other two Tigers and then turning them so that their flanks were 90 degrees to the hill was now impossible, with their crews pinned down. Plan B – wait for the grenadiers to clear the snipers,
tree by tree, but did he have time for this? Plan C – lay down covering fire and send Knispel in on a hunting expedition. But could he risk losing his gunner at this juncture? Plan D, plan D... Come up with a plan D! But plan D was too horrible to contemplate... Plan D would not be his plan, it would be the Soviet plan – blow up the Tigers and get out of there...
Then, as if on cue, up on the hill, the sound and fury of dust, engines and smoke...
“Enemy! 4,000 metres on our right flank! Junge, get as close to our other two Tigers as possible!”
The tank spun around. “God forbid it isn’t our turn to have engine trouble,” thought von Schroif to himself. He quickly calculate one advantage of which they could avail themselves – the terrain. The Soviet tanks would be unable to advance en masse through the trees; they would have to split up into small groups. He then made a mental note to search for any tracks or trails leading out of the sloping forest that could lead to bottlenecks where they might concentrate their fire.
His first task was to take care of the snipers though. He had, as a matter of urgent necessity, to get his crews back into their tanks and get them firing!
“Wohl, reload with high-explosive.”
“Wendorff, radio ahead to the tanks and tell those that are outside to remain under cover until after the third incendiary.”
“Knispel, aim for the rocky outcrop one hundred metres from the base of the hill. Three shells, fifty metres apart, starting at one o’clock.”
The plan was audacious, but von Schroif could see no other option. He had to get those crews in their tanks before they were overrun!
“Fire!”
The first shell streaked out of the throat of the barrel, traversing its distance in almost a straight line, before smashing against the rocks at the base of the hill and sending a spray of rock and lethal shrapnel shredding through the tops of the trees directly in front of it. Knispel had no time to check if it had been effective in its task. Wohl had already loaded the next shell.
Tiger Command! Page 21
