Tiger Command!

by Bob Carruthers

  He was certain that the Soviets were already aware of his presence, so there was no advantage to give away. Consequently, there was no need to endanger the lives of any German personnel. Von Schroif then relayed the target’s position, Knispel lined it up, and the quiet morning air reverberated with the massive explosion which ripped through the stationary T-34. Von Schroif immediately felt a vindication of sorts, and a brief sense of satisfaction, when he saw one man emerge from the inferno, pulling on a comrade who emerged head, then shoulder, then chest, then nothing but bloody mangled pulp. He did not linger on this horror though.

  In the course of an almost-mechanical few minutes he had moved in turn to each of the remaining suspicious targets and dispatched all of them to any metallic heaven or hell that may exist. Once he was satisfied that the area had been cleared, he moved the column up and took a forward position between the two stricken Tigers and the hill to the east of them. Behind them he could see the support teams, helped by the Tiger crews, carrying tools. Elements of the rest of the force formed a perimeter around them.

  Von Schroif then returned his gaze to the hill, trying to peer between the trees and the undergrowth, searching again for movement, change, disturbance, but saw nothing, not even the flight of birds or the movement of small animals. Then, from nowhere, the unmistakable sound of artillery, what sounded like a massive barrage on the other side of the hill.

  Then Wendorff, who had been listening intently to his radio, passed on some alarming news. “SS-Hauptsturmführer. Major List is under attack... outnumbered, huge force... artillery... T-34s... and... he’s breaking up... monsters...”

  “Monsters?” replied von Schroif.

  “I’ve lost him, sir... hold on... monsters, monsters... KV-1’s, sir.”

  Von Schroif knew it was now imperative to get the Tigers, if not up and running, towed back to the supply area as quickly as possible. If neither of these two objectives were achievable, then the next best tactic would be to get the crews back in and buttoned down and prepared for what von Schroif considered an impending attack. He then felt a tug on his leg and looked down to see Wendorff motioning him back down into the tank.

  “SS-Hauptsturmführer,” whispered the radio operator, “I don’t know if this is pertinent or not, but a few minutes ago I picked up the same kind of transmission as I did at Rostov, the one that gave away our position and strength. I did not mention it at the time, as I was unable to decode it, but then this came through from Oberstleutnant Borgmann at HQ.” At which point Wendorff handed von Schroif a piece of paper containing a new order.

  “Proceed to coordinates. Detain. Wait for further orders. Highest priority.”

  Von Schroif rolled his eyes in anger and frustration. “Borgmann? That oaf again! Did he have any idea of the situation they were currently in? What in God’s name is this all about! What was Borgmann’s game? Could he be trusted? Was there more to this than bungling idiocy?”

  As von Schroif fulminated, Wendorff added to his Commander’s woes. “SS-Hauptsturmführer, Major List is calling for reinforcements. Message reads: position untenable. Requesting air support.”

  Von Schroif needed air. What was going on? What was he to do? On emerging from his cupola, he immediately turned his eyes skyward. A patch of blue! The clouds were clearing! How unreliable those forecasters were! He then motioned to Hauptscharführer Rubbal to proceed with the utmost haste and get the static machines moving again. The Hauptscharführer responded with outstretched arms, indicating that that was exactly what he was doing...

  Von Schroif had an uneasy feeling concerning this present circumstance, men working out in the open, the skies clearing, the force split in two, with one of its halves under murderous assault, the sound of its plight, though distant, still shaking the ground beneath them. He then turned his attention to the possibility of air strikes. Oberstleutnant Siebold, the Luftwaffe liaison in his SPW, was best positioned. He could sight, then report as an alarm over the radio – this would save them time and allow them to prepare for any attack.

  “SS-Panzeroberschütze, radio Oberstleutnant Siebold and request him to not take his eyes off the skies.”

  Von Schroif then turned his mind to Borgmann and the coordinates stated in his new orders. He decided to open his map and check the position he had been given. A mile from the hamlet, to the north. Damn him! This Borgmann, he was going to have to wait. In von Schroif’s mind, there could be no greater priority than ensuring that these Tigers did not fall into Soviet hands.

  “Oberstleutnant Borgmann again, sir,” shouted Wendorff from below, interrupting von Schroif’s train of thought. “Asking if we have reached target.”

  “Tell him we will proceed when the situation has stabilised.”

  There was a moments silence after Wendorff relayed von Schroif’s message. Then Wendorff responded. “Not an option, SS-Hauptsturmführer. An explicit order. On the highest authority.”

  “SS-Panzerschütze,” said von Schroif, resignedly addressing his driver, “SS-Panzeroberschütze will give you the coordinates. Take us through the tree line at the foot of the hill.”

  Bobby Junge revved up the Tiger and headed for the trees at the base of the hill. Just as they entered the trees, Wendorff relayed another message. “Oberstleutnant Siebold. Luftwaffe has arrived! Rejoice!”

  This was the best bit of news von Schroif had heard all day and it lifted his spirits momentarily. He looked back with warm pride as the Hauptscharführer called over the towing trucks, directing them carefully to the Tigers, as if they were his own children. “At least the Tigers will be safe,” thought von Schroif to himself. “Our airmen will make sure of that.” But then he heard the whine of diving aircraft and saw half a dozen planes banking steeply, then commencing a dive towards them.

  He picked up his binoculars to get a closer look and was barely able to contain his rage. “Those planes are not ours!”

  “Take cover! Enemy aircraft alarm! Take cover!”

  “Damn those forecasters! We have no flugabwehr!”

  The Il-2’s dived out of the sky.

  “All crews under their vehicles!” shouted von Schroif to Wendorff.

  Von Schroif knew that he and his crew were relatively safe. The Il-2’s were nicknamed “The Black Death”, but von Schroif, and any experienced tanker who had encountered them, apportioned the term to Soviet propaganda. “Reinforced bathtub” would have been a better name. However, it was not the ungainliness and bombing inaccuracy von Schroif was worried about – most of the vehicles in his group would survive, unless unlucky enough to receive a direct hit – it was the Il-2’s cannon, and the poor crewmen, support teams, and grenadiers out in the open who were the object of his concern.

  Refusing to jump back down into his tank, von Schroif watched in horror as the first wave of Soviet planes strafed the scattering elements of his group, many cut down and shredded as they ran for cover. Then came the bombs, the shrapnel, and the flames.

  “Get Siebold to call for air support!”

  Ducking and wincing, von Schroif saw one Kübelwagen take a direct hit, its flaming chassis flying through the air and grotesquely pinning two hapless grenadiers to the ground. Picking up his binoculars, he desperately tried to locate Siebold’s SPW, but, just as he did, an Il-2 screamed over the tops of the trees, its cannon ripping up the ground in front of the vehicle like it was unzipping the very fabric of the earth itself before tearing apart the SPW and its crew. Men and bits of men flew about the innards of the vehicle before one lucky shell hit the fuel tank...

  In return, the ground forces were opening up with everything they had, but von Schroif knew this to be absolutely futile. Without proper air defence support, this was no more than wasted ammunition, mere fireworks. Two more runs and the attack was over, each succeeding run less effective than the last, as the German forces fled from the open and found whatever temporary sanctuary they could.

  As the smoke cleared and the sanis went about their bloody business of saving,
consoling and tending, von Schroif’s mind was already thinking ahead to the next phase. All was quiet. Whatever had been happening on the other side of the hill was over. Von Schroif did not dare to imagine. Poor List. And now it would be their turn. The KV-1s and the T-34s would be streaming over the hill at any minute. It wasn’t the T-34s that bothered him, it was the KV-1s. There was a new balance of power in favour of the Tiger over the KV-1, but he had only four, and three of them unable to move in any direction at all.

  Instinctively, von Schroif guessed that the Soviets would be legion... It all came down to numbers... The cold, dead hand of the numbers game... It was at moments like these that a commander, a soldier, a man, had to look skywards and plunge both hands deep down inside of himself to try and summon up any fight, spirit, or resolve that may remain.

  Then it came, that awful thought... This is it, this breath may be my last... But that way lay certain death. When a man gives up on himself, then all, truly, was lost. So, holding on tight to the sides of his hatch, as if the tank herself were feeding him strength, he dragged himself back into the moment with the thought: “It is not my last, it is not my last – it is... to the last! To the last!”

  Snapping out of it, he felt relief. How could he have abandoned himself so easily? How could he do that to himself, his unit, his crew? His crew... that is what kept him going...

  Just then, Wendorff, his rock, looked up at him and, in the calmest voice imaginable, said: “SS-Hauptsturmführer. Do you calculate that the Soviets will attack from over the hill like yesterday, or will they skirt around it, retracing Major List’s tracks and attack from the rear?”

  Von Schroif took an instant to assimilate the import of what his radio operator had said... Genius! For, at that moment, his mind had been operating on one single track, that of a massed force of KV-1s and T-34s charging down the hill. That option, from the Russian point of view, however, presented certain obstacles: incline, lack of surprise, and the physical obstacles of yesterday’s burnt-out hulks blocking their way down the few tracks available... So, an attack from the rear now seemed the likeliest Soviet option, which meant... which meant... and von Schroif’s heart leapt at the word... bottleneck!

  “SS-Panzeroberschütze, remind me to take you, and the entire crew, to Bayreuth when this is all over. Instruct all units to take up position 150 metres above the tree line on the hill, looking down on where the track leads into the valley. Tell the three other Tigers to train their guns on the exact point where Major List’s group turned off to go behind the hill. Inform all groups that the hill now has a new name. Hill Gotterdamerung!”

  “Jawohl, SS-Hauptsturmführer,” answered Karl Wendorff with a smile.

  Now it was only a matter of time and guile. Could Kampfgruppe von Schroif wheel and reach their new position before the Soviets? No doubt ever crossed von Schroif’s newly-crystallised mind. This was a German battle group, after all!

  With his group in position, ready to rain fire down on the advancing Soviets, von Schroif then had to decide where to position the Eastern Front’s one and only fully-functioning Tiger tank. With a bit of luck, they could take advantage of the Acht-acht’s superior range and position themselves up and behind the main group, thus providing oversight and protection against any attack from the rear, but would the engine hold during the steep climb?

  “Damn it,” thought von Schroif, “trust in the crew, trust in the tank...”

  “SS-Panzerschütze Junge, take us up to that ridge behind the main group.”

  Then the wait, always the wait. The combined firepower of Kampfgruppe von Schroif, concentrating and concentrated, some sensing victory, others fear, others revenge...

  When the first Soviet tanks appeared, von Schroif, like every commander, was engaged in his own personal battle. When to hold, when to fire. The longer one held, the greater the firestorm unleashed, but also, the longer one held, the greater the possibility the trap would be sprung against the hunter... Hold... Hold... Von Schroif could feel the sweat start to trickle from his brow. Inside the tank, the heat, the tension, the silence, the sweat... Hold... Hold... Hold... “Fire!”

  Every gun and every barrel spat flaming death down the hillside, onto a trapped and unsuspecting foe.

  “Reload. Fire!” Again and again, three savage salvoes fired before the Soviets were able to respond.

  Inside the tank, sinew and brain formed an inseparable bond within men and between men, and between man and machine. Wohl, in his shorts, the heart of this machine, feeding shell after shell of this pulsing, beating organism of death.

  Desyanti and T-34s were blown together and apart. Flaming metal death swept the column in high-explosive wave after high-explosive wave. Many of the KV-1s were still functioning though, still alive, and almost all had their guns bearing up on the hill above them.

  “Reload. Fire!” ordered von Schroif, but he heard nothing in response. No noise. No retort. Fearing the worst, he turned and looked back down into the tank at Otto Wohl and couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The little bastard was sitting down, flicking through the pages of that damn book of his. But before von Schroif could open his mouth, his loader quickly ripped a page out of the book and handed it to him. It was a diagram showing the weak spots of the KV-1 and the relative effectiveness of different kinds of explosives at different ranges.

  “SS-Panzeroberschütze, Wendorff. Pass this vital information to all Tiger commanders. Wohl, thank you, but please resume your duties!”

  And so it was that the tide was turned. Rearmed with this vital information, each Tiger commander was reminded exactly which round to use and where to fire it. Armour-piercing at 1,500 metres front-on, 2,000 metres side-on. High-explosive for track and running gear and engine ventilation systems. Soon the KV-1, which had reigned supreme from June 1941, was cast down amongst the mortals, and a new tank, the Tiger, rose to take its place on the pantheon of battlefield gods.

  “Send in the grenadiers,” was von Schroif ’s next order, one which signalled the final phase of the battle, and one which brought relief to all those hardy souls on Mount Gotterdammerung. All except one – Commander Dimitri Korsak.

  Back in the tank, Otto was the first to break the silence. “Well, boss, I didn’t want to upset you during the heat of battle, but I’m afraid that last shell was... well, our last shell. How is that for portion control?”

  “Good timing, indeed!” replied von Schroif, “Now, let us get these Tigers towed back to base!”

  But then Karl interrupted. “SS-Hauptsturmführer. Borgmann again, asking for an update.”

  “Damn this Borgmann!” thought von Schroif to himself, but orders were orders.

  “SS-Panzeroberschütze. Inform Borgmann that we are approaching target. SS-Panzerschütze Junge, take us to the target as quickly as possible!”

  Junge then increased the revs and Elvira tore through the woods, smashing through the undergrowth like a giant beast unleashed, the tank careering sometimes at such a steep angle that von Schroif, if he had not trusted his driver completely, may have adjudged it would surely tip over.

  “Five hundred metres from designated coordinates,” Junge informed his commander. “Must be that panje hut in the clearing.”

  “SS-Panzerschütze Junge,” ordered von Schroif, “slow her down and take us to within 200 metres. SS-Panzeroberschütze Wendorff, you are coming with me.”

  Then there was an almighty crash. All five of the crew were thrown about the inside of the tank like limp dolls. Then an eardrum-bursting roar. Coming to, von Schroif instinctively knew that they had been hit from the rear.

  “Knispel, behind us!”

  Michael Knispel, dazed and bleeding, got back into his position, but, try as he might, could get no response from the turret turning mechanism. Then von Schroif remembered that it was futile anyway – they had no armour-piercing shells left. They were a sitting duck.

  Peering outside, he could see a KV-1 approach, and, in the commander’s hatch, the unmistakable face
of... and then he remembered... It was familiar, he had known this “White Devil”, this “White Fox”... their paths had indeed crossed before... in Germany... over 20 years ago, in the Freikorps and KAMA... Stenner, Wilhelm Stenner... that was his name...

  This flash of memory was no good to him now. No gun, no ammunition, and, by the sound of it, even no engine.

  His crew looked at him for support and salvation, but he had nothing to offer. Nothing. They were indeed a powerless, motionless, sitting duck. There was only one hope. If it was the tank that Stenner was after, then in all likelihood he would not want it destroyed. Their only hope was to sit tight, safe for now in the iron belly of the beast. Then, suddenly, Otto Wohl collapsed. Bobby Junge was first to guess the probable cause, Karl Wendorff the first to rush to Wohl’s aid.

  “Engine shutoff, sir. Carbon monoxide, we have to get him outside.”

  Hans von Schroif made one of the hardest decisions he had ever made as quickly as if it had been one of his easiest.

  “Everyone outside... at the double.”

  He had no choice. He would not leave Wohl or any other crew member to certain death. They would take their chances. To the last.

  Laying Wohl on the ground, von Schroif then stood up and faced the KV-1, trying to squeeze one ounce of mercy out of Stenner’s cold heart, if not for himself, then for his crew, but it was a pointless exercise. Slowly, the machine gun turned towards him. In a gesture of solidarity, Wendorff, then Junge, then Knispel, stood shoulder to shoulder with him. None were running. None were leaving their commander, or Otto Wohl.

  Death did not come at that moment though, only another almighty roar. The back of the KV-1 reared up, its turret sagged, and von Schroif could make out flames sweeping the inside of the tank. Stenner bailed out, but no crew followed him. There was an attempt to break open the turret, but it soon petered out. Nothing could have survived. Then von Schroif heard the roar of a Panzer III, bearing the welcome sight of Major List.