“Fire!” came the order, just as Knispel had shifted the required aim 50 metres to the right.
Another deadly spray of shrapnel ripped through the tops of the next group of trees.
“Fire!”
The third shell crashed into the rock at almost exactly its allotted slot.
Von Schroif peered through the dust and flame, trying to hold himself steady as the Tiger sped across the soft Russian terrain, and was filled with joy at the sight of four lifeless bodies cradled in the leafless branches, and to see the stranded crewmembers jump back into the relative safety of their vehicles. “Now Ivan has a fight on his hands!” he exclaimed, as he watched both Tigers swing their barrels to point at the onrushing enemy.
To his amazement, he saw one T-34 burst into flames, and then, soon after, another’s turret blown up into the air. How could this be? None of the three tanks had commenced firing yet. Then he realised that these two T-34s had been picked off by the fourth Tiger, the one he had left behind – at a range of almost 3,000 metres!
His spirits buoyed, and it was not long before the other three Tigers joined in. Hull-down, man and machine worked in what seemed like a furious but simultaneously serene harmony, loosing off shell after shell, and scoring hit after hit! Before the Soviet tanks could even get in range, they were blown apart or put out of business. One after another, with methodical precision, the onrushing enemy armour was turned from deadly harbingers of doom to lifeless smoking hulks!
Von Schroif knew that this was, in part, due to Soviet tactics. “When would they ever learn?”
A frantic charge to get close may have worked against some of the older panzers, but not these new Tigers, not these new “Princes of the Steppe”. Within twenty minutes it was all over. The full Soviet attack had been blunted. Through the smoke and flame, the only audible sound was the laughing and joking of the grenadiers as they made their way confidently through what, until recently, had been a battlefield.
A strong guard was placed on each disabled Tiger. The rest of the party withdrew to refit and tax their tired brains for a solution to this new dilemma. No one wanted to destroy them, but, whatever happened, the stranded Tigers could not fall into Russian hands. It was now a race against time.
Hans von Schroif stared out over the assembly area, noticing smoke rising from the field kitchens, the distant sound of music, the snorers, the dreamers, and the active workers – those that could not allow themselves to stop, for fear of coming face to face with what they had just seen, heard or done... If the heat of battle was one way of determining a man’s character, then the assembly area presented another. In battle, a man was revealed by his actions. In the supply area, by his inaction.
Yes, there were essential acts of maintenance and training, but the overall job of the supply area was to take broken and exhausted men and prepare them for the next step in this dance of death. Replenishment and revitalisation were the order of the day, and every man dealt with it differently. Some slept, some talked, some sang... some ate because they were hungry, others because they joked that this meal would be their last... and some could not eat at all. Those that managed to sleep, von Schroif considered the luckiest of all. Especially during these all-too-short Russian summer nights, when Ivan seemed to enjoy getting up early and turning to his guns.
Letter writing was something that he, along with others, grew to hate. How could you possibly describe what you had just gone through and witnessed? Letters home were a deception at best, a lie, a work of art. At worst, when writing to next of kin about the loss of a comrade... How could you honestly describe the manner of death? Could you mention incineration, the spilled guts, or decapitation? How could you write that a son or loved one died any other death than that of a hero? To Hans von Schroif, war itself was preferable...
He then looked out over the ditch his crew had dug for themselves. This was normal practice when not sleeping in the tank itself, to carve out a little trench and then drive the tank over it for protection. The only member of the crew who refused to sleep outside the tank was Otto Wohl – Elvira was now the latest in a long line of metallic mistresses!
Von Schroif had noticed that Wohl had not yet carried out his prescribed task – replacing any expended shells – which was unusual for one so scrupulous. It was a laborious and arduous task. Had Wohl reached the limit of his physical reserves? Von Schroif thought he had better investigate.
Thankfully, on entering the tank, he was heartened to find his proud loader hunkered down in the loading bay, busy scribbling away with pen and paper.
“Letter home, SS-Panzerschütze?”
“It is a missive of sorts, SS-Hauptsturmführer, but not so much to my former family as to my new family.”
Von Schroif could have questioned him further, but he smiled and gently reminded him of his duties.
“Apologies, Hauptsturmführer,” said Wohl, before adding rather cryptically, “This endeavour on which I am embarked is not a form of idleness, nor a recreation, but hopefully, in itself, essential to our efforts here on the front.”
Then, seeing the slightly perplexed look on his commander’s face, he added, “You will, of course, be the first to see the fruits of this labour, which I have called ‘Project Elvira’ . Now, where are those shells?”
Von Schroif then went over to tap Michael Knispel on the shoulder to wake him for sentry duty. Whilst doing so, he couldn’t help but notice Karl Wendorff looking particularly pensive, sitting wide awake against a nearby tree.
“May I join you, SS-Panzeroberschütze?” asked von Schroif.
Wendorff nodded, his dark demeanour adding to von Schroif’s concern. Von Schroif sat beside his radio operator, choosing to remain silent, in order to give Wendorff the chance to talk first.
“We are going to return for those tanks,” said Wendorff, which unsettled von Schroif, as the manner in which it was delivered suggested more an answer than a question.
“I have not been briefed yet, but I imagine those may be our orders.”
“Hauptsturmführer, do you believe that a man can foresee his own death?”
“Yes, I have foreseen myself die many times over!” joked von Schroif, feeling that the implied darkness in Wendorff’s mood needed some lightening.
“I dreamed of St Liborius last night. You remember, in Paderborn, the patron saint of a good death.”
Von Schroif was unable to reply. The seriousness in Wendorff’s tone precluded an answer that was unsympathetic or glib. Von Schroif was used to lifting his men’s spirits, but the depth and weight of this despondency was something that was starting to alarm him.
“Would you call me a good friend, Hauptsturmführer?” continued Wendorff.
“You are not going to suggest that you dreamed you died in my arms, SS-Panzeroberschütze?”
“I know what dreams are, sir, but this was a vision with far more... substance.”
“SS-Panzeroberschütze, I really think you should get some sleep.”
“Sleep is coming soon enough, Hauptsturmführer.”
“Wendorff, please stop this.”
Just then, an adjutant of Major List walked up to them. “SS-Hauptsturmführer, Major List would like to meet with you immediately.”
Von Schroif stood up. Before leaving, he whispered to Wendorff, “Not a word of this to anyone.”
The ashen-faced radio operator did not even look him in the eye. His only acknowledgement was a slight shrug of his already heavily-stooped shoulders.
Another who saw his own impending demise was Walter Lehmann. In his case though, his vision was far more concrete than a dream. He would have liked to say it came as a relief, but RSHA Kriminalassistent Walter Lehmann, former SS man and now Soviet spy, was a man who had made his decisions as career choices. Decisions made in order to further and furnish his already-pampered life, not have it taken away from him before he had time to fully enjoy the fruits of his many deceptions. His heart had sunk when he saw the men from the Abwehr at the door.
Strange, he had just been looking admiringly out over Prinz-Albert Strasse from his balcony. Berlin had never looked so beautiful. Funny how one knock on the door could change everything.
Staring out the window at Tirpitzufer, Admiral Canaris weighed up his possible responses to the news that Walter Lehmann was about to be arrested. “If only that damned professor’s wife had got in touch with him and not Oster.” His second-in-command had travelled down the only road open to him. There was no doubt Lehmann would talk. The Old Intriguer had always known that it was a risk to use Lehmann as an ignorant dupe in his grand game. Fat, stupid and unreliable, the piggy-eyed idiot thought his cover intact. Fool! How easy it had been to insert Borgmann as Viper and feed him little titbits to Stenner – or as he was now lovingly referred to by his new comrades, Commander Dimitri Korsak.
Canaris had vivid memories of their time back in the Freikorps. Ha! Lehmann and Stenner, these scum were worse than Hitler! He did not blame himself however; Admiral Canaris’ luminous, spidery mind was too used to strategizing and plotting to fret over one broken filament in a brilliantly-spun web. The tactic had been weighed in the scales. Getting close to Beria was one part of the prize, a worthwhile endeavour in itself. But, for now, it was all about covering tracks, which meant getting Borgmann out into the clear, and getting rid of Korsak.
Canaris reasoned that the best way for Borgmann to prove his credentials was by ensuring that he was the one who eliminated Korsak. That way, he could claim that Lehmann was a pawn in the game to ensnare Die Weisse Teufel, and also strengthen his position at OKW. A worthy aim, for he was sure Borgmann would be needed again in the future... And there was one other consolation. Whatever Lehmann did transmit under torture would come back to Canaris, and he, being at the centre of the web, was in charge of how it would be retransmitted. He could spin it any way he wanted.
Time to move on... It was a pity his friends in London would not get their hands on one of these new Tigers anytime soon... However, there were other weapons and other secrets, and the British were nothing if not patient...
“Gentlemen, I am sure that the objective of our next mission will come as no surprise,” announced Major List. “I have it on the highest authority that no effort should be spared to ensure that those three stricken Tigers do not fall into enemy hands. If they cannot be recovered, they are to be destroyed.
“To forestall this unthinkable outcome, I shall take command of the mission, supported by SS-Hauptsturmführer von Schroif. We shall be ably assisted by a team of combat engineers from Division, and a number of the new support and recovery vehicles.
“The principal objective is to clear and hold the area around the three tanks, in order that essential maintenance can be provided, and that all four Tigers can return to the assembly area under their own steam. If this is not achievable, then we are to tow them back for any repairs that can be carried out in the workshop. Over to you, Hauptscharführer Rubbal.”
“Thank you, major. Our first determination is that the problems may be related to the gear boxes, a problem accentuated by the soft terrain. In engineering terms, this should be a straightforward task. Dismantle the flexible couplings in the half-shaft drives, and tow it out of the immediate battle area. If, however, closer inspection reveals that any of the tracks have ridden up over the sprocket teeth, this will require more time and horsepower. In order to expedite this process, may I respectfully ask SS-Hauptsturmführer von Schroif’s permission to involve his excellent driver, SS-Panzerschütze Bobby Junge?”
“Permission granted,” replied von Schroif, “as long as our tank is stationary and not in need of a driver,” which all attending found highly amusing.
“Now,” continued Major List, “I have read SS-Hauptsturmführer von Schroif’s reports and the latest reconnaissance material, and we are expecting a counterattack in the next 24 hours. I suggest we split our force into two – one part, under SS-Hauptsturmführer von Schroif, returning to the hamlet near where the Tigers are situated, and the other part, commanded by me, to pivot behind the hill and attack any Soviet resupply of their previous position.”
This made von Schroif uneasy. “With all due respect, sir, the assumption that the Soviets will return by their former route leaves us open to an attack from the north side of the hamlet.”
“I understand completely, SS-Hauptsturmführer. However, in the absence of any new intelligence, I have to make the assumption that the Soviets’ most likely strategy in most eventualities is a repeat of the strategy before.”
This was a fair point. However, von Schroif had one more question. “Are we afforded any air cover, sir?”
“Thankfully, the forecast for today suggests that the skies will be too overcast for flying. Thank you, gentlemen.”
Having just finished preparing for a conference with the OKW, Oberstleutnant i.G. Borgmann had to decrypt the recently arrived message from Admiral Canaris twice before he could be certain of its import.
“Lehmann to be arrested. Position untenable. Fox no longer our friend. Retain cover till Fox eliminated. Repeat Fox no longer our friend.”
So it was over. Well, nearly. The Steppe Fox had never really been our friend. Borgmann felt relief. Getting close to Lehmann in order to gain his confidence had been distasteful to say the least, but he had done well. Lehmann had believed that they worked for the same masters.
In all honesty, the plan to trade these new Tigers had not sat well with him. Surely you do not give your prize military assets away when not just men’s lives, but a whole front, a whole war, may depend on them? But, if Canaris thought the trade worthwhile, then who was he to judge? He had often wondered what hand Canaris was playing here, but that was beyond his rank. All he had to do was trust that Canaris had the best interests of the Reich at heart.
Frustration, but frustration underscored by an unrelenting patience. That was how an observer would have assessed Dimitri Korsak’s state of mind. Such distant observations were not the object of Korsak’s focus. His mind was concentrated, and nothing concentrated Korsak’s mind like hate. He recalled the long death march from Liborius, the agonising thirst, the unendurable hunger, and the shock of seeing his comrades shot like dogs.
He owed his life to his capacity to hang on to his hatred, and, following his escape, he realized that hate was easier to deal with if it had an object. In this case, it did. Hans von Schroif was the name it held on to...
It was his command which had machine-gunned Korsak’s colleagues. Korsak was sure he would have died too, had von Schroif got wind of the fact that he was there. True, the dirty work had been done by the SS-Sturmscharführer whom he thought had the name of Braun, but von Schroif was the puppet master. He had ordered the massacre, and there was the name to boil his blood and stir his hatred. “Once a vacillating little swine, always a vacillating swine,” thought Korsak to himself.
His days in the Freikorps came flooding back to him, adding to his hatred, that weasel Hitler and his apologist cronies like von Schroif and his ilk. It was now nearly twenty years ago, but the memories were still raw, the accounts still unsettled. Gregor Strasser was dead because of men like von Schroif. Strasser had been the movement’s one true leader. Killed and usurped by Hitler. Of course, he had not been Dimitri Korsak then, he had been Wilhelm Stenner, but that was just a different name and a different set of papers. It was the hatred that mattered, and the hatred remained the same.
When von Schroif returned to his tank and crew he was relieved to see Wendorff sitting amongst them.
Otto Wohl seemed to be the centre of attention, holding court with his now seemingly indispensable notepad and pen.
“SS-Hauptsturmführer! Come and sit with us,” enjoined Wohl, “I am conducting a seminar!”
“A seminar, SS-Schütze?” replied von Schroif, “Since when did you enter the hallowed halls of academia?”
“Do I look like a professor, sir? No, this is a meeting of practical engineering minds. Wendorff here was saying that one of the princi
ples of study, whether at the University of Heidelberg or the University of Life, is to list what one could term the ‘good’ and ‘bad’ points of any consideration. I am sure you employ the same principles in your application of battlefield tactics?”
“Indeed, SS-Panzerschütze Wohl”, replied von Schroif, “Good, bad, plus, minus... Personally, I prefer the terms ‘strengths’ and ‘weaknesses’.”
“Exactly! Now, it is funny that you should use those terms, because that is precisely the point of this exercise. It’s part of the still top secret project Elvira, but I promise you, if the benefits are being deliberately held from you now, they will be more than evident on the completion of the project.”
“Time you made a good woman of Elvira then,” interjected Michael Knispel.
“SS-Hauptscharführer,” replied Wohl, “no man should get betrothed to a woman whose charms he does not fully know.”
“No man would get betrothed to a woman whose charms he did fully know,” joked Knispel, at which the group, even Wendorff, chuckled.
“Enough of this,” replied Wohl. “Elvira and I remain close, but, as yet, not fully committed. Let us leave it at that. Anyway, allow me to warm to my major theme. The purpose of this exercise, SS-Hauptsturmführer, is to attempt to list Elvira’s good and bad points – her strengths and weaknesses, as you so eloquently put it.”
“One major good point is that she hasn’t started spending your money yet,” mocked Bobby Junge, joining in the fun.
“Enough!” cried Wohl. “To business! Sir, this is what we have come up with so far. From a lowly loader’s point of view, personally, I am more than happy with the amount of space provided for my duties. This allows me to conduct my profession with greater ease and efficiency. I am also delighted with the new flexible strips for attaching stowage.
“Knispel here is beside himself with joy over the binocular sights, and with – as I think we all are – the overall stability when firing the new electric trigger switch in the firing gear, and the handholds on the roof. When it comes to the Acht-acht, I think the gratitude and levels of satisfaction are unanimous. Likewise the armour.
Tiger Command! Page 22
