by Tom Zola
Still, better than the Eastern Front! Yet he had to think of his Kameraden who were fighting for their lives somewhere in Russia right now. Then he noticed that the guys from Military Intelligence actually had thought of him: a tin can filled with tobacco and even a pack of cigarette paper sat on one of the chairs. Taylor’s face broke out in a wide grin.
West of Ponyri, Soviet Union, May 4th, 1943
Heeresgruppe Mitte – 71 kilometers north of Kursk
Berning’s company had been marching all afternoon. Now it was night again, but they would follow the front troops that had penetrated the Russian buffer zone near the mountain range around Olchovatka.
It seemed to Berning that the battles had proceeded considerably more smoothly on this second day of the operation – only a little artillery fire had filled the horizon and now, instead of constant shelling, one could only hear the thunder of guns now and then. Berning hoped that the Russian resistance had been broken and that the remaining Ivan’s had fled, because he knew that the Russians liked to be overrun by the mechanized units just to take up the battle with the infantry that followed.
His boots stomped down the tall grass while he and his comrades crossed a wide open space in a skirmish line, which meant that all soldiers of the company advanced staggered next to each other in one long row. Looking first to his left and then to his right, Berning saw the silhouettes of soldiers moving forward tensely. He could hear the sound of gear banging against other gear, and the constant rustling of grass and brush under the men’s boots. They reached a rather large forest that needed to be crossed. Then, at the other end of the woods, they would take up position and spend the night there.
Berning didn’t want to go on.
His belt with all his gear on his back was pulling down on him, creating pains in his tailbone. And on top of that, the handle of his spade hit him in the back of his knees with every step he took. Every inch of his body itched, especially where dried or fresh sweat met countless mosquito bites. Berning inhaled and exhaled audibly; then he sighed deeply. It felt as if the weapon in his hands was getting heavier by the minute.
Thoughts of home flooded his mind, making everything even worse. He would much rather have spent the past hot summer day on the shore of Lake Neusiedl, so shallow that one could walk right through it from one end to the other.
“Berning,” a voice called him.
He remembered going to the lake with his classmates after school, swiping grapes from the fields, and returning home in the evening with a sunburned back. Those had been wonderful, happy times when Berning hadn’t had a care in the world.
“Berning!”
And of course he also had to think of Gretel and how he had held her breasts in his hands for the first time. They had protruded from her body like mounds of firm, hard flesh.
The hours he had spent with her in the barn during his last leave had certainly been the most exciting times of his whole life. Gretel and Franz Berning had always been inseparable. They had gone to school together before the National Socialists had come to power. They had also spent most of their afternoons and weekends together. Berning had helped out on Gretel’s parents’ vineyard estate, and Gretel had often been in his mother’s kitchen, helping her with the pork roast or the vegetable soup. Last year in September they had swiped a bottle of Sturm from the basement and drunk it by the lake at night. Oh, how much trouble they had been in! Yet they seemed to be made for each other. They knew it; their parents knew it. Only this stupid war didn’t seem to know it!
“BERNING!”
The sergeant thought he had heard a voice. The landscape of Lake Neusiedl dissolved into thin air, and suddenly the tall grass of the Russian plains was back. A figure was rapidly approaching from his right. It passed all of his comrades, and it was not until the figure was only one yard away from Berning that he recognized Staff Sergeant Pappendorf, whose whole face was burning with fury and who looked as if he was about to blow a fuse.
“BERNING!” he sputtered with rage, towering menacingly over the sergeant. Pappendorf’s distorted face came so close to Berning’s that their helmets collided while the staff sergeant intimidated him with a crazed look like that of a bird of prey right before its nosedive. “What the hell’s wrong with you? You really are the worst sergeant I’ve ever met!” His voice boomed across the open plain while he spit out his words at Berning with a wet undertone.
All the Austrian could do was stare back.
“We’re not in school where you can just doze off, you useless imbecile!”
The soldiers to his left and right were already gazing at them, while the whole formation of the squad had come to a halt. Once again Pappendorf banged his helmet against Berning’s stahlhelm.
The sergeant wished that the ground would open up and swallow him.
“You can be damn glad that we’re in the middle of a military action, you gun full of blanks! Otherwise I’d make you do push-ups until your skinny little arms snap! Keep your mind on the mission, will you?”
“Jawohl.”
“Jawohl what?”
Berning felt like rolling his eyes. Even he knew that you used ranks sparingly out in the field, but Pappendorf obviously belonged to the species of non-commissioned officers that wanted to take any opportunity to bathe in the glory of their rank.
“... Herr Unterfeldwebel,” Berning whispered and then lowered his eyes with feigned humility.
Stretching his head forward, Pappendorf breathed directly into Berning’s ear, “You’re nothing but a grunt! A pitiful little private with the wrong insignias on his shoulders!”
Then Pappendorf looked up. His short hair barely reached past the edge of his stahlhelm, and his uniform was impeccable even though they were out in the field. The Eastern Front Medal, a round, silver-colored piece of metal with the Prussian eagle on it, sparkled on the left side of his chest – in the second buttonhole. Though he had been wearing the medal for a year now, it looked as if it had just left the embossing machine. Underneath the eagle was the swastika because the Wehrmacht wasn’t able to replace all medals that quickly. Next to it, the silver wound badge dangled from his chest.
In addition, Pappendorf wore the EK I – the Iron Cross 1st class. The staff sergeant had even buttoned the collar that hardly anybody wore on the front line into his field blouse as the Wehrmacht regulations dictated. Several seconds passed while Pappendorf glared at Berning.
The sergeant had no idea what he was supposed to do. “What … what can I do for you, Herr Unterfeldwebel?” he finally stammered hesitantly.
Pappendorf lifted his nose so high that Berning could only see the sergeant out of the corner of his eye. Then he turned around and marched straight back out into the dark. Berning stared after his squad leader with pure hatred in his eyes.
What a slime ball, he thought. Risks the lives of all of us just to play his power games! Berning’s contempt for this human being grew with every second while sweat ran over his hands, making the wood of his weapon slippery. The whole squad was still standing there without moving while the other squads had long since moved on. This bastard was really playing a dangerous game.
“Sergeant Berning?” Pappendorf’s voice echoed across the open space.
Berning sighed. “Here, Herr Unterfeldwebel.”
“Come here! On the double!” the squad leader’s voice ranted.
Oh no! Berning immediately started to move. While he was running, his gear pressed into his back even more and kept banging against his arms and legs. He was already black and blue in those spots where the spade or the bread bag or the canteen kept hitting his body.
“Come on, move it!” Pappendorf drove him on.
Berning ran ahead of his comrades, who were mere shadows in the dark, down the row, and finally reached his squad leader, whose outline was as straight as a candle, except for the fact that this candle was holding a submachine gun.
“Man, don’t run in front of the weapons!” Pappendorf yelled, gesturing wil
dly. “Do you want to be gunned down by your own men when the Slavs come?”
Berning groaned and stopped, breathing hard. Pappendorf stuck his nose up into the air as high as if he wanted to touch the clouds. “Stay with the mission, Sergeant!” he admonished Berning in a threatening voice.
“Jawohl!” Berning was breathing so hard that he could barely get out this one short word. The combination of the strain of the short sprint and his fear of another confrontation was too much. He lowered his head, and his fingers clamped down on the shaft of his weapon while he desperately wished he was anywhere but here.
“JAWOHL WHAT?” Pappendorf yelled, spitting wet words into Berning’s face. This guy obviously didn’t care that they were in the middle of a war.
“Jawohl, Herr Unterfeldwebel!”
“There you go!” The staff sergeant looked at Berning for a moment before adding sharply, “What’s wrong with your first assistant machine gunner?”
The question was harsh and caustic, and Berning had no idea what Pappendorf was talking about. He hesitated for a second and stared at the ground. Then he looked up with eyes glazed over. “I don’t understand … err... what you mean, Herr Unterfeldwebel.“
Pappendorf exploded. “WHAT THE HELL? ARE WE AT THE COUNTY FAIR HERE OR WHAT? IF YOU LET YOUR AMMUNITION BOXES RATTLE AGAINST EACH OTHER JUST A BIT LOUDER, EVEN STALIN IN MOSCOW CAN HEAR YOU!”
His words rolled across the open space like the shock wave of an explosion, echoing back and forth.
Berning just stood there like a dog in the rain; he didn’t move.
“So stop it, will you, Sergeant?”
Berning nodded, turned around and ran back to his position.
He heard Pappendorf’s voice yelling “Jawohl, Herr Unterfeldwebel!” behind his back; it sounded disappointed. Then Berning reached the left tip of the squad where he had his place with the MG fire team.
Wiping his face with his right hand, he could hear Pappendorf yelling, “Well, comrades! Thanks to your new assistant squad leader we fell behind the platoon. So: Double time! My speed; everybody keeps up with me!”
Double time? In the dark? HERE AT THE FRONT LINE? Berning couldn’t believe what he had just heard. Does this guy think we’re still in basic training, or what?
Then at the right he heard the high-volume clatter of gear that was so typical for running German soldiers.
Now they can hear us at least as far as Washington! But even this quick attack of black humor couldn’t hide his true state of emotions. His stomach hurt even more, and his homesickness pressed into his guts, torturing him. Now the soldier on his right started to run, and Berning started to move, too. Breathing hard, he ran across the bumpy grass field and could feel the pressure points on his feet while his pulse began to quiver.
All of a sudden the air was full of hissing and whistling sounds in the distance. It sounded like airplanes taking off. The noise was coming closer at the speed of light.
“A Stalin organ!“ somebody yelled. Then all hell broke loose around Berning. Countless rockets hit right into the column of march and threw up soil as if a giant’s rake was digging up the land. Berning threw himself on the ground and covered his head with both hands. He could feel the air around him being sucked in by the explosions. Then it dispersed, thumping in all directions, tearing on his uniform and gear. The whole spectacle took no longer than about twenty seconds. Then the detonations gave way to the screams of dozens of soldiers in pain. Berning raised his head slowly but all he could see were the silhouettes of soldiers lying on the ground and in fresh craters. The first assistant machine gunner lay next to him, screaming, trembling and flailing like a fish out of water. There were more screams: from his right, from his left, from everywhere. Then Pappendorf started to yell, drowning out the rest of the noise. “Berning, come over here right now!“ he yelled ferociously.
Lutshki I, Soviet Union, May 4th, 1943
Heeresgruppe Süd – 87 kilometers south of Kursk
The southern front-line sections of Operation Citadel were in the grip of the dark night that had ended the attack movements of the day. Lieutenant Engelmann – who had still been pessimistic about the further progress of the operation – had witnessed how a single day could change the fortunes of war: On the first day of the operation, the land gains had still been modest, and the German Army had clearly failed to reach the goals for that day almost everywhere –Engelmann’s division had been the one exception to that rule. Today, however, they seemed to have faced a totally different enemy.
There had hardly been any Russian artillery fire at all, and enemy airplanes had been driven away from the airspace much more successfully. In the evening, the formations of the Wehrmacht were able to report considerable progress in almost all sections, and indeed this second day of Operation Citadel literally spurred the German soldiers on and even gave the skeptics the necessary confidence that they were on a mission that wasn’t doomed right from the start.
In the face of their success, Lieutenant Engelmann had also seen a little light at the end of the tunnel. But then his regiment had done its share, too. Today they had moved north on a section of the road to Prokhorovka where the infantry and Panzergrenadier forces of the division had taken the villages of Kalinin and Lutshki I.
In the course of the battles around these two villages, the III Abteilung of Panzer Regiment 2 had to fend off a counter-attack of enemy tanks of the British Churchill model. Engelmann’s platoon had survived all three combat actions without any losses; the 9th Company had lost one Panzer III; the III Abteilung had to dead-list three tanks, one of which only had engine failure, though. This battalion alone had destroyed 23 Russian tanks and 36 artillery guns.
And the attacks on the other sections had been more than satisfactory: Formations of Kempf’s army had blocked the road from Belgorod to Korotcha and moved up north far enough to gain again a coherent front with the units of the 6th Army. That paved the road for another push tomorrow.
Lieutenant Engelmann had used his tarp to get comfortable underneath his tank. While Nitz was already snoring loudly next to him, Ludwig was writing a letter to his father, Münster was stuffing himself with a margarine sandwich, and Born was reading the last chapters of his science fiction novel in the light of a candle, the lieutenant had spread out his situation map and was studying the area once again. He put a piece of chocolate into his mouth and pulled his blanket all the way up to his shoulders. It had cooled down, so Engelmann had also wrapped a scarf around his neck to protect it from the cold while a few drops of rain fell on the area around Prokhorovka. Tomorrow morning at 0400 German time the Luftwaffe would fly a massive attack against the city and the enemy anti-tank gun batteries in front of it. Then, at 4:30 a.m., they would advance along the road up to the city limits, under cover of the Tiger panzers, and hopefully take the whole city before dusk set in. Of course military intelligence had not overlooked the fact that the Russians were gathering large tank units around Prokhorovka, including many Guards formations, but that was fine with Engelmann. Somewhat thrilled by the success they had achieved today, he hoped they could finally deliver the decisive blow tomorrow, ending the fight. With a little bit of luck they would then, after taking Kursk and stabilizing the front line, return to the rear echelon. And then there were the Tigers that had taken over much of his work and had always stood between his own unit and the enemy like armored shields. Since the mechanics had worked on the broken-down tanks all last night, doing overtime, for tomorrow Engelmann could count on 34 Tigers again. Not bad!
He took another glimpse at the map. The city was surrounded by a powerful defense ring, while enemy forces along the road leading up to it had most likely been positioned there to stop the German attack columns by seizing their flanks. Engelmann knew what they had to watch out for. The terrain gave the defensive forces an advantage, and he couldn’t count on the German Air Force eliminating every single emplacement. Tomorrow wouldn’t be easy, but the united firepower of the artillery, the tank
s, the infantry, and the air force would get them through it with flying colors.
Finally Engelmann folded his map and put it aside because Cyrillic letters and tactical symbols were already dancing around in his head. He turned on his back and stared at the belly of his tank. Of course he could be sitting in a cozy farmhouse with the company commander, drinking beer, but in the presence of the enemy he preferred to stay with his men.
“Herr Leutnant?” Born’s voice interrupted his thoughts. Turning around, Engelmann saw that Münster and Ludwig were already asleep.
“Mhm?” Engelmann looked into Born’s large blue eyes.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Even if it is a … well … critical question?”
“A critical question?”
“Yeah … ”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean a critical one … a question you may not want to hear.”
“Now you’ve made me curious – why don’t you just come out with it?” Engelmann smiled, pleased that his men trusted him so much.
“Well … I’ve just been thinking about all this. About the war … about what we’re doing here.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed that.”
“I’ve been reading this book, Herr Leutnant.” He pointed to the German edition of The War of the Worlds. “Have you read it?”
“No, that’s not my kind of thing. I prefer realistic classics.”
“Anyway, it’s about creatures from outer space that attack human beings. They’re from Mars and they want to settle on Planet Earth and claim it all for themselves.”
“I see.”
“When I think about it, it strikes me that in this war … ” He hesitated. Not that long ago it would have been extremely risky to talk about certain things – particularly critical things – and even today the Reich was certainly not a democracy with a guarantee of freedom of speech. But then Born dared to say it anyway. “... Well, in this war we are the Martians. Okay, Poland attacked us first, it was all over the radio and the newspapers, and of course we had to react against those who had declared war on us.”
