by Tom Zola
*
The drums of battle merged to an almost continuous deep, constant, threatening thunder filling the air over the small farm settlement west of Kursk, preparing the stage for the inevitable slaughter to come. The sounds came closer as the combat activities did, but Berning paid no attention to them. Since the pitiful remains of his reconnaissance squadron had moved into one of the farms and taken up their defense positions there, the men of 2nd Platoon also got for a change to enjoy a roof over their heads again. The group of farms, which consisted of a tight cluster of seven farmhouses that formed a kolkhoz, was located on a wide, open field that sloped down on all four sides. Dense woods rose to the left and right, while in the west the open plains stretched out in the form of a lane through the groves all the way to the horizon. If the Russians were to attack here, they would be seen for miles; while the Germans could hide in the buildings and the surrounding woods.
But Sergeant Berning didn’t care. He sat on a chair in a bedroom on the second floor of one of the farmhouses. The door to the adjacent room, where Hege had established his MG perch, was closed, and Berning had asked the other men not to disturb him for a moment. Most of the soldiers of the platoon were downstairs, sleeping or playing skat, while Pappendorf was scurrying around the company’s command post.
Berning’s entire body trembled. His hands shook. His eyes were closed. His lips throbbed and had turned gray.
The muzzle of the K98k felt cold and strange in his mouth. The weapon was loaded and the safety catch was off. The index finger of his right hand lay unsteady on the trigger. Berning was just tall enough to kill himself with the gun. He sat there like that for several minutes.
Everybody had shown him often enough that he didn’t belong here – that they didn’t want him here. So this was his solution. This way he wouldn’t be a burden for anyone anymore. His finger was still on the trigger but he just couldn’t bring himself to pull it. No matter how much power he thought he was applying to his finger – the trigger refused to move. Berning tensed up his whole body.
So count down! He ordered himself, ten … nine … eight … seven … six … five … four … three … two … one … and … fire!
Nothing. His finger didn’t move. Berning groaned. He was angry. Angry at the war. Angry at everything. Angry at himself. He wasn’t even good enough for this! But then again, no! After all, the muzzle was still in his mouth!
Again! Count down! Berning closed his eyes so tightly that they hurt. Ten … nine … eight … seven … six … five … four … three … two … one … fire!
It just didn’t work. Berning opened his eyes and the tension left his body.
Come on! Come on! He urged himself on. But he couldn’t do it.
He took the weapon out of his mouth and hurled it against the far wall. To hell with the sights! He cursed silently. Then he collapsed on the ground.
He made a fist and slugged it into the wooden planks with all the force he could muster. One time – two times – three times. He felt a sharp pain in his wrist.
Minutes that felt like an eternity passed while the booming noise in the background became louder and the noise of propellers filled the sky. Berning looked up slowly. His eyes were bloodshot and tracks of dried tears marked his face.
Straightening up, Berning rubbed his eyes. Through the window he could see purple signal strips drawing lines into the sky.
Then a detonation very close by tore Berning out of his own little world and carried him mercilessly back into the here and now. The whole building shook under the power of the impact. Berning ran to the window and froze. The terrain in front of the positions of the formation had become invisible because it had been completely swallowed up by attacking Russian forces. Infantry, tanks, even cavalry. An olive-brownish mass moved towards the positions of the Germans. Heavy assault guns – nothing Berning had ever seen before – formed the tip. Twelve of these beasts with low silhouettes and fully enclosed casemates carrying monstrous gun barrels – larger and longer than those of the Tigers – moved directly towards the farmhouses. The sergeant estimated these monsters to be longer than twenty-five feet. They shot and drove in turns. Their high explosive rounds tore up the dirt around the collective farm, while half of a smaller shed collapsed after being hit. The steel leviathans were immediately followed by T-34’s and other medium-sized combat tanks that fanned out widely, forming a wedge with the assault guns on its tip. And behind them more infantry forces stormed ahead; there were even soldiers on horses, holding sabers and guns in their hands. It was one gigantic wedge, and its tip was pointing directly at the positions of Schnelle Abteilung 253.
Gunfire lit up everywhere, and tracer rounds raced into the rows of Russian soldiers who had already flooded the forward operating positions of the division at the left and right edge of the woods, just swallowing up the bullets in the pure mass of bodies. Artillery fire crashed down among the attacking forces of the Red Army, killing many soldiers, but even more just kept on running. The Russian Ratsch Bumms piped up, too, blowing German positions to hell.
Petrified, Berning still stood at the window unable to move. He could already hear Hege's MG commencing its murderous hail of bullets. Then the door to his room was kicked open and Pappendorf stepped in, a radio in one hand, his MP 40 in the other.
“Dammit, Sergeant! Grab your gun and run over to the MG! You’ll lead its fire! I’m going down to the platoon!”
“Jawohl, Herr Unterfeldwebel!”
“Go, go, go!”
“Herr Unterfeldwebel?”
“Yes?”
“Wouldn’t it be better to retreat?”
Now Pappendorf did something he rarely ever did: He grinned. “Herr General Becker has just received confirmation of tank support. The Slavs will soon discover that they’ve made a big mistake.”
*
Now the tanks of the regiment sprang into motion. Panzer II’s, Panzer III’s and – thank God – also several Panzer IV’s shot across an open field that slightly sloped uphill, along the edge of the forest. Massive enemy tank forces appeared at the positions of the 253rd, and the regiment was going to intercept the Russians exactly there.
Engelmann looked out of his cupola with a grave expression on his face; then he disappeared into the turret to study the map. The thunder of gunfire and the noise of airplanes even drowned out the roar of the tank engines.
“Hans, follow the edge along the woods. At approximately four thousand meters ahead we’ll come to a lane in the woods. It is near a farm compound to the east. That’s exactly where the enemy is bound to break through. Full speed ahead, man!” Once again the 1st Platoon was the leading platoon, and the 9th Company was the leading unit. Engelmann hated always having to be right at the front. But then that was the fate of those who were competent.
“Roger,” Münster yelled as he pushed Elfriede to the limit. Though the tank groaned and creaked, she gained a few more mph in speed.
Just at that moment Nitz received a radio transmission. Leafing through his radio logbook, he listened carefully and jotted down a few key words that, due to the rumbling of the tank, looked like the scribblings of a six-year old.
“The 253rd reports twelve assault guns.” Nitz paused; then he continued, “and a whole shitload of tanks! T-34’s and the likes.” His eyes widened. “Two to three hundred, all in all.”
“Ebbe, the platoon should stay close together.”
Nitz sent the message. Then they received an order originally from Colonel Sieckenius, but the CO of the 9th had it already itemized down for his units. Nitz translated the jumble of numbers into words they could understand: “Regiment takes up position behind the hill at level 254.2. Decoy provided by 9th Company. Guess whom the old man has chosen.”
“First platoon to the front!” Born yelled with rather dubious motivation.
“That’s what it looks like. We’ll play the bait, attract the Russian tin cans, and then the trap springs.” Nitz’s voice sounded concerned, and Engelma
nn was anything but enthusiastic, either, but there was a chance that they might get a hold on the overpowering enemy tank forces this way.
“Remember the Dnieper salient in ’41? This is gonna be the same thing,” Engelmann declared ironically.
“I didn’t like the Dnieper salient,” Ludwig retorted.
Their own regiment had been melted down to barely more than one hundred tanks. Lieutenant Engelmann frowned. It would be a tough ride, but the situation wasn’t hopeless. After all, the enemy’s wedged-shaped line of attack had to battle dozens of German anti-tank guns, and the infantry was likely to thin out the rows of Russian forces.
*
Berning held onto his rifle and narrowed his eyes to a slit while the building was shaken by the fire of the explosive shells that made the windows burst. Hege fired one ammunition belt after another at the advancing infantry soldiers, who for their part were busy trying to drive the German soldiers into the woods like cattle when they attempted to flee from their trenches. The Russian tank wedge had slowed down, and stopped in places. Now the tank guns tore apart the German anti-tank gun positions in the forest and on the collective farm.
The Germans didn’t stand a chance. Only one T-34 burned somewhere in the sea of advancing enemy forces, while nearly all German anti-tank guns had been blown to pieces. The defense lines crumbled away everywhere while Russian infantry soldiers stormed the woods from both sides. Some soldiers tried to reach the life-saving farm buildings, which were groaning under the fire of the huge assault guns, but most of them were just slaughtered by Russian fire.
“When will the goddamn tin cans get here?” Hege yelled while one comrade wearing a protective glove pulled the glowing barrel out of the weapon and pushed barrel number two into it.
“I don’t know,” Berning yelled back, ducking even farther. He could hear the enemy bullets from handguns smash into the outer walls of the building. Right now the fleeing Germans still kept the Russians busy, but all too soon they would focus their attention on the collective farm, which then would stand in the way of the red flood like a breakwater barrier.
“We have to get away from here!” Berning gasped, and tightened his grip around the gun while Hege let the cocking handle of his weapon shoot forward again, and pulled the trigger. The MG immediately spit steel and death into the horde. At the same time, Pappendorf came running up the stairs, rushed over to the MG position and threw himself on the ground next to Hege.
“The tanks’ll be here in two minutes,” he shouted at the top of his voice, drowning out the noise of the machine gun. It was only now that Pappendorf noticed that Berning was rolled up like a hedgehog, pressing himself against the wall in a defensive posture.
“Berning! Dammit! What are you waiting for – an order to attack? Shoot, man!”
Looking up, Berning opened his mouth. “I … ”
An explosion tore a huge hole into the wall next to the window from which Hege was shooting with his MG. Fragments and parts of the wall flew throughout the room and knocked the soldiers to the ground. They cursed, groaned, and covered their helmets with their hands to protect their heads. Pappendorf and Hege immediately struggled to get up while Berning coughed and writhed. The first assistant machine gunner stayed on the ground – forever. Hege was already back at his machine gun again and engaged in combat. He shot long bursts of fire into the masses of enemy forces that were pushing through the lane between the two wooded areas in the distance.
Pappendorf peered at the area ahead. His eyes grew wide. To their left, a huge throng of Cossacks on horses – more than one hundred and twenty of them – broke out of the Russian formation. Armed with sabers, guns, and submachine guns, they drove their horses into a wild gallop as they raced past the tanks and assault guns and headed straight for the collective farm. Meanwhile, the enemy tanks continued to move again; yet they stopped firing. They would just break through now, and leave the rest up to the infantry and cavalry.
“Private!” Pappendorf yelled and grabbed Hege by the shoulders, “over there, at eight o’clock, six hundred, the effing Knights of the Round Table. Blow ’em up!”
Hege swung his machine gun around, aimed and fired. The rounds smashed into the throng of horseback riders, threw horses and men onto the ground and mercilessly decimated the rows of Cossacks.
“My God, the horses ... ” Hege moaned, and kept firing; yet the bullet storm did not impress the Cossacks. They just kept shooting back while galloping forward. Gunshots riddled the farmhouse walls. Berning, who had just gotten up again and shaken himself like a dog, threw himself back on the ground and pushed his stahlhelm down hard on his head while he closed both eyes. Again he wished himself away from this living hell.
*
Engelmann looked at the terrain through his eye slit. In the distance he could see a compound of buildings under heavy fire. Tiny blocks whizzed around in this whirl of infantry and horsemen on the horizon. Engelmann counted an unbelievable number of tanks.
“Hans, keep the pedal to the floor.”
The distance shrank quickly. Now the lieutenant could recognize the enemy assault guns. They’re as huge as sperm whales!
“Armor-piercing round!” he gasped, and Born rammed a shell in the breech.
“We’ll close in on them, hit them and run! Get ready!”
“Yep, Sepp,” Münster confirmed.
They were only one and a half miles away now, and when Engelmann saw the extent of the Russian attack, tiny beads of sweat formed on his forehead. His infantry Kameraden were either fleeing or hiding on the collective farm, which was now being blown to pieces and surrounded by hostile infantry forces. Then Engelmann refocused his attention on those huge assault guns that were moving between all of the T-34’s.
What the hell are they? He wondered. Could they be those new SU-122’s? No, they’re much too big for that!
One of the steel beasts now turned so that its front armor – as well as the giant barrel – faced Engelmann’s platoon. Despite the distance the lieutenant could tell that the weaponry of this self-propelled artillery vehicle was oversized.
“Theo, can you see through the sight what these big things are?”
“I can’t see anything – with all this shaking going on.”
“Hans, slow down. Half speed.“
“Jawohl, half speed.” Hans gently stepped on the brake to slow Elfriede down.
“The platoon is to do the same and stay behind me.”
“Jawohl, slow down and stay behind us,” Nitz repeated and got behind the radio.
“I want to approach the situation slowly and check it out while we’re still at a safe distance,” Engelmann whispered and leaned forward as far as he could so as to get a good look through the narrow glass of his turret. They were more than a mile away.
“Cautiously approach to one point five; then we start to enter the danger zone...”
But without a warning Laschke’s tank exploded. The turret was torn off, and the hull was enveloped in flames and smoke.
“What the … ?” Engelmann said without being able to finish the sentence.
“Laschke’s been hit!” Nitz screamed. At the same time more anti-tank projectiles rained down on the platoon and tore up the ground. A spray of dirt and grass and rocks created walls around the German panzers, blocking their view.
“Who’s shooting?” Engelmann yelled, moving to the left and the right. But it didn’t help; the view his eye slit provided didn’t get any bigger.
Marseille’s tank got the next hit. With the driver killed, its sides torn open, the tank rolled on while inside all life had been extinguished by the impact.
“Stop, Hans!” Engelmann roared. Elfriede came to an abrupt halt. A second jerk went through the tank when, one second later, it was rammed by Marseille’s ghost tank. Engelmann was thrown to the front and hit his head badly. He held his forehead with his right hand while he saw flashes of light dancing in front of his eyes.
“Is that coming from the woods?”
the lieutenant gasped. “Hans, pull back right now; they’re killing us!”
“Jawohl!” Münster literally attacked the transmission to push the engine to the max. With a violent jerking movement Elfriede rolled backwards, shoved Marseille’s dead tin can aside, and revved in reverse. More shells exploded between the platoon’s two remaining tanks.
“Who the hell’s firing?” Engelmann cursed.
“It’s coming from over there!” Münster cried into his throat microphone while he hung onto the levers. He could see clearly through his window that the monstrous assault guns were lining up a good mile ahead, focusing all of their attention on the platoon.
At this distance? The lieutenant wondered. No way!
Engelmann’s and Meinert’s tanks drove in reverse at full speed while the Russians smothered them with shells.
“Step on the gas! Two point nine left to get to the ambush. Pedal to the metal, Hans!“
”I am! I am!”
A projectile hit Meinert’s track with a loud bang and smashed it. Howling, the tank stopped.
“Fire!” Engelmann yelled frantically.
“ … but … ”
“I don’t care! Fire!”
Ludwig fired and actually hit one of the assault guns in the center. But the monstrosity just ate the shell for breakfast and didn’t even belch!
“AP round!”
“Meinert has stopped. Has thrown off his track!” Nitz gasped while the next messages were already rushing over the airwaves.
“No! Hans, stop the tank!”
“Do what?”
“Stop and drive up to Marseille’s wreck. We’ll use it as cover! We won’t abandon the guys!”
Elfriede came to a halt. Something knocked against her steel skin. The chinking and humming of projectiles that ricocheted off the tank hurt Engelmann’s eardrums.
