by Barry Sadler
You come back to us on the far side of the ridge and join us here. At that time, we'll cut loose with the seventy-five to finish off whatever's left of the Ivans in the gully."
Koch nodded agreement. "Very good. I like it. They won't expect anyone to be on the far side of the gully. Should work out pretty good. Make sure you give me that minute before you cut loose with that cannon."
Splitting his men up, he gave them their instructions and took the rest down the gully with him, disappearing into the shadows of the last light.
Crackling in the distance, a Russian light machine gun answered by the rapid chatter of a German MG-42. . . .
General Oberst Hoth received the day's after action reports with a sense of forboding. Reviewing the positions of his troops, uneasiness worried at the edge of his mind. Too slow. They had not reached their objectives. Ivan was ready for them. True, they had made five miles of penetration over all, but that did not mean that the Soviet lines were penetrated—not the way they had prepared their system of ring defenses. The day had started off badly enough when Lauchert's brigade of Panthers had stalled in an undetected mine field. It took hours for the pioneers to clear a lane. All the time, Russian artillery was having a field day on the immobilized tanks. The rains of the past days had served to turn the low ground near Beresvyy into a bog where one tank after another came to a standstill with mud up to the skirts and covering the treads. The only success was the capture of Cherkakoye, where the flame throwers mounted on the Mark Ills had used their flaming hoses to good effect in burning out the houses and bunkers. The hissing jets of fire had a range of almost eighty meters and turned the inside of the Soviet bunkers into flaming ovens designed for the cooking of human flesh.
Turning off the lamp he sat on the edge of his field cot in the dark, thinking about tomorrow. The Knight's Cross glistened in the reflected light of a distant Russian flare, lighting up the night sky and then fading into a cinder and becoming one with the darkness again.
Langer watched the flare wink out. It was over to his left, where the SS men were dug in. Teacher lit his pipe, shielding the bowl with his hand. Motioning for Teacher to take his place on the turret machine gun, he clambered down and went to where Koch's infantrymen were on the ridge. Moving alongside the machine gunner, he squinted into the dark.
"Anything happening?"
A negative shake of the head was answer enough. Taking his binoculars, he focused them and slowly searched the dark. They're out there, I know it. A short muffled cry and then silence came to him out of the dark to the front.
The gunner spoke quietly. "The major said he'd take out that sniper. For my money, he should have left him alone. That Wind bastard couldn't hit anything. Now they might send up one who knows how to shoot. But the major's always had a hard-on for snipers, ever since one shot his left ball off outside Stalingrad."
Langer chuckled. " Left ball, huh? How can you be sure he can get a hard-on for anything?" The gunner smiled in the dark . . . good question.
Snick. The sound of a rifle bolt closing.
"Somewhere out there. Hard to tell how far. Sound is different at night; could be twenty meters or a hundred."
The gunner nodded. "I heard. Bet they're in the small piece of low ground to the left. He shifted his gun over to where it touched one of the stakes he had driven into the ground on each side of his weapon. They served as markers for him in the dark.
"There's another one. They're getting ready. What say we shake them up a little."
Langer thought about it for a moment. "No. We better let them make the first move. I don't want to give your gun position away too soon. We'll wait awhile. They won't be long now. I'm going back to the tank and when you're sure they are out in the open, give a whistle and I'll light them up for you."
The gunner grinned again. "Zum befehl. Hen Feldwebel (at your command)."
"You've got HE in the tube, don't you, Teacher?" The esthetic-looking scholar confirmed that they had high-explosive rounds ready and to hand.
"Good, infantry will come first. We'll have time to load for tanks when we hear them coming. I think they're going to try and surprise us first without any mortar fire, or artillery preparation. They lay that on us if they can't infiltrate."
Gus sat on the go position, ready to turn on his engine and start up. Stefan was on the hull gun waiting. Humming to himself, Manny stood ready to load whatever shell was required and Teacher entertained himself by quoting passages from Schiller to himself. Langer took the flare pistol and loaded it. A short soft whistle. Carl motioned Teacher to get on his gun while he took the MG on the turret. Raising the flare pistol, he fired a long burning arc that raced overhead like a sky rocket, leaving a trail of sparks behind it to burst into a searing flash of white light. Beneath the glow the Russians stood frozen in their tracks by the unexpected illumination.
"Fire!" Langer's MG joined that of the gunner on the ridge in sending rapid bursts of fire into the massed bodies of the Russians. The chatter of the MG's was joined by the slower cranking of the Mauser rifles of the infantrymen.
Ilye Shimilov screamed orders and the guardsmen hurled themselves at the German positions shouting "Una Stalino." The rest of the trench opened up and withering fire erupted from all guns, hosing the Russians down into dark masses of dead and dying. And still they came on with the high-speed, rapid chatter of the burp guns competing with that of the Schmeissers. And men died.
The gunners on the ridge held the Russian attack.
Ilye Shimilov screamed in frustration and shot two guardsmen in the back of the head in order to provide the others with the proper spirit. He was going to shoot a third when a bullet from a Mauser smashed into his forehead and blew most of his brains out, leaving a gaping hole you could stick a fist in. The rifleman who hit him laughed as he told his neighbor, "I told you, cut the noses off and you will blow the shit out of anything you hit. Dumdums ought to regular issue."
His dialogue ended when a grenade blew his face off and left him gurgling wetly in the bottom of the gully. The Russians to the front faded back into the dark, firing as they went. A ricochet bouncing off the turret told Langer that they were coming from the ravine now. Swinging his MG around, he waited a second and the rapid, distinct sound of Koch's MG-34 told him it was time to let go with his own. He swept the gully in front of him from side to side, his weapon joined by Stefan's in the hull. Counting slowly, he gave Koch his minute and ordered Teacher to fire the 75 mm set to the lowest position. The shells burst in the middle of a packed group of about sixty Russians, sending arms, legs and torsos into different directions. Teacher fired as fast as he could be reloaded.
The rest of the trench was involved with their own troubles and had no one to spare for them. Each had to hold his own or die. The grenadiers on the edge of the ravine turned their weapons to point down the gully and began firing and throwing grenades as fast as the pins could be pulled. Koch's group stayed on their side of the ravine to keep out of the way of the Panther's gun and continued to send a hail of fire into the Russians below. The exploding shells of the Panther tore the attackers to pieces.
A cry from the side of the ravine jerked Langer's head around.
"Enemy tanks. They're coming. I can hear them."
A runner from Major Kruger raced up to them. Breathless, he climbed up to Carl. "The old man says you are to pull back up to the other side of the ditch and cover us while the Wespes get to some high ground."
Langer acknowledged the order and told Gus to start her up. The Maybach roared into life and the Panther moved off. Langer kept the turret facing the Russians and Teacher continued to fire, giving cover while the infantry withdrew. Flares started to pop overhead, lighting up the whole area in blinding brilliance. The artillery to the rear was giving what support they could in response to Kruger's frantic plea for support. The flares showed a wedge of T-34s led by two KV-Is moving across the field, all guns firing.
Langer's tank moved up the opposite rim of the ridge
. Without waiting to be told, Teacher reloaded with a piercing scream and sighted on the approaching tanks. Taking the leader in his sight, he nodded for the okay and fired, the round knocking the tread off, leaving the T-34 turning in circles, a wounded beast waiting for the death blow which was not long in coming. The crew burned inside as the fuel tanks went up and then exploded when the flames reached the stacks of shells inside, blowing the tank completely over.
The Wespes had reached ground suitable for the use of their powerful 105s. The assault guns had a limited traverse but were in their element in antitank fighting from prepared positions. One after another, Russian tanks were knocked out until the field in front no longer needed the flares of the artillery to light it up. The burning hulks of Soviet armor provided all the light they needed. As soon as the tanks were done in, the Wespes shifted over to antipersonnel rounds, firing shells that exploded above the heads of the panic-stricken Russians, smashing them into the earth while the combined machine-gun and rifle fire of the grenadiers of the Gross Deutschlanders stitched them back and forth, the tracers from the MGs like racing fireflies. They sought out the soft bodies of the attackers. The Russians broke and disappeared back into the dark, leaving their wounded behind. They had enough. Only one KV-I returned. Eight lay burning on the field. They never got closer than two hundred meters to the gully.
CHAPTER FIVE
Immediately after the Russians withdrew, Major Kruger ordered all the men back into the gully, including the Wespes and Langer's Panther. Carl thought he was crazy when he ordered all guns to fire at nothing from the trench for a full five minutes and then ordered them back out to take up positions a thousand meters to the rear.
It wasn't until Ivan began to lay artillery and heavy mortars on the position they had just left that he understood why. By going back to the gully and firing they let Ivan think they were still there and let them shell empty positions all night while they rested in peace further back. Once the new defensive perimeters were set and the sentries stationed, the rest could settle down for a few hours of badly needed sleep. They had been lucky this night. If Ivan hadn't tried to get so cute and creep up on them without any artillery or mortar fire beforehand, it might well have been a different story. As it was they had only nine dead and seven wounded, two critically, and these were laid by the Wespes and were being cared for by their medics.
Langer and Teacher took the first watch. Teacher filled his ever-present pipe and sucked in deep on the aromatic smoke while Langer lit up another Juno.
"A long day, right. Teacher?"
"It could have been longer or shorter. It's all a matter of perspective."
Carl stripped to the waist and rinsed himself with a careful measure from his canteen, wiping away the surface grime and powder. The water, even though lukewarm, felt cool on his skin. Teacher looked at the mass of scars on his tank leader's torso. Some were thin lines like threads of white; others were deep gouges that puckered at the edges and one on his left wrist that ran all the way around. . . .
"I don't guess you're ever going to tell me how you got so chopped up, so I guess I'll just have to ask. If you don't want to talk, it's all right." He took a couple of short puffs to keep the pipe lit.
"It's all right. Teacher. The old scars came from when I was a kid and in a car wreck; I went through the windshield and got cut up pretty good. The others came from an assortment of accidents—some from a train wreck in Switzerland in 1934 and the others from jealous husbands; they look worse than they are."
Teacher moved to where he could see Carl's chest and pointed to a long deep scar right in the center of the chest. "What about that one! I know that had to be serious."
Langer touched the scar. "Well, let's just say that's one I don't want to talk about."
Teacher nodded. "As you wish. Now tell me, how are things at home? What news? We really haven't had a chance to talk since you got back from the training regiment."
Letting the air dry him, he sat down next to Teacher on the turret. "Not good. The Americans and British are bombing night and day and all but the essentials are gone, though the black market is active enough, if you have money—or something to trade. But what bothers me the most are the rumors and stories of what's going on at places where civilians are kept in camps. A couple of names that have cropped up are Auschwitz and Buchenwald. I don't know, Teacher, I have seen trainloads of Jews being sent back from Poland and Russia, whole families in cattle cars. I asked an SD man about it at one of the stations and he said they were going to relocation centers . . . but I just don't know. The things I have heard are not good."
Teacher nodded slowly. "I know what you are talking about. I have heard them too. It's the SS, the bully boys of the Totenkopf, the Jew baiters and toughs from the streets of the thirties." Teacher spat on the side of the tank, missing his mark on the ground.
"Bastards."
"Here at the front we don't get any of that shit or hear much of it, but recently they have been sending some of those black-uniformed heroes to the front to fill out the ranks of the Waffen SS and with them, they bring their sickness."
Langer shook his head, the thin hairline scar giving him a bitter look that came out in his words, "I don't know if we deserve to win if the stories are true. Teacher. I don't know if we're going to win anyway. Russia is just too big, and for every tank that's turned out in the factories in Germany, the Russians turn out twenty. They can afford the losses. If we don't win soon, I don't think we ever will, and if the stories are right, I don't want us to. Look, we have all shot some prisoners when it was necessary, when we couldn't take them with us and couldn't send them back or let them go. That's one thing. But the horrors I have heard are too much and believe me. Teacher, I have been around more than you might believe."
Teacher thumped his pipe out in the cup of his hand, dropping the ashes. "You can talk to me like that, but be careful what you say around anyone else. You know the punishment for spreading sedition and defeatest talk."
"Well, it's time to wake Gus and the youngster up. We can still get a couple of hours sack before morning."
Gus and Manny took their places on the turret while Teacher and Langer rolled up in their blankets. Like all soldiers they knew how to sleep instantly—one deep breath, close the eyes and out.
Gus spent the hours until dawn regaling Manny with stories of his amorous adventures while working as a whorehouse bouncer in Stuttgart. Manfried learned more that night about female anatomy than he could have in twenty years of normal living, but then whoever said Gus was "normal." Everything he did was oversized and exaggerated; he ate more, talked more, drank more and lied more than anyone in the army and that included the general staff and Herr Schiklegruber, as he referred to the SS's holy German, the Austrian Führer.
Manny was aghast at the disrespect shown the leader. Never had he heard anyone say anything detrimental about him before. It was unheard of, but he couldn't help laughing when Gus told him that Hitler would have never made it, if he had kept his real name. After all, it would nearly be impossible to imagine 20,000 black-dressed SS men at a party day rally in Nuremberg shouting "Heil Schiklegruber." No indeed, there was a lot to a name.
By the time of the first false light of predawn creeping over the fields, he was certain he was sitting next to either a madman or superman—possibly both. Scratching the stubble of beard, Gus stood up on the side of the tank and undid his pants and took a leak, his stomach rumbled and he leaped from the tank telling Manny to watch things and ran off to do some looting for breakfast. The four pounds of sausage was eaten before last night's attack. Gus was a man who needed to keep his strength up. After all, one never knew when he might run into some of the Russian female mortar crews. God. How he would like to have a week interrogating some of the large-titted, broad-hipped Russian female officers. He would teach them soon enough who the master race was; after all, did not a pecker bear a strong resemblance to the German helmet. And he, being the pride of the Panzer Corps, had
the finest example of one available for miles.
Gus's logic escaped Manny, but then most of the things Gus said he missed. After Gus left, he selfconsciously opened his trousers and took a good look at his own organ. Controlling a giggle, he thought: "You know, it does look like a German helmet, but doesn't everyone's look the same?" He'd have to ask Gus about that when he came back.
Langer awoke to the sound of engines starting up, which brought him to instant awareness. Gus was back with a helmet full of eggs and the hindquarter of a hog. He was breaking the egg tops off and sucking them out as fast as he could, smacking his lips and making that awful gurgling sucking sound he had when he normally fed.
"Here," he said as he set the helmet full of eggs down. There were ten. "These are for you and the others. I already ate mine."
Grinning, Langer looked up, "And how many was that, Gus?"
"Only a dozen, more or less. I didn't want to make a pig of myself, you know. Have to watch my figure."
Stefan leaned out of the hatch. "You don't have to worry about making a pig of yourself, you're already a walking piece of suet. God already took care of that for you."