Rise of the Bloodied Phoenix

by Andrew McGregor

  Pushing his double socked feet into his insulated boots, he ruffled his hair once more, grasping his cap and fumbling with the buttons on his tunic. Ernst glanced up, his eyes sparkling with excitement as he looked at his friend resolutely, ‘So…Russkie time!’ Straightening up, he slapped his countryman’s shoulder with encouragement, zipping his thick flight jacket up to the collar, the sheepskin surround comforting his chin, ‘Manfred…we both come back today…let’s see what Ivan has for us my friend, the engines of war are calling!’

  Both men ran from the low tent, the cold air enveloping them in the early morning light, their boots crunching on the frozen snow as they darted forward, giggling childishly with rising excitement. Two hundred metres away in the open field, the unit commander stood with his arms folded in impatience, a smouldering cigarette between his thickly gloved fingers. Shaking his head, he shouted disapprovingly, ‘One day I will make you stay on the ground Brandt…let you watch those that can get up take to the sky!’ The middle aged moustached superior grinned as they neared, stamping his boots, ‘Russkie fighters and attack reported north of here…drive them off before you rearm and meet your Bf110s!’

  Ernst grinned widely as they ran past, his adrenalin beginning to surge once more, ‘They will not be there for long, Herr Hauptmann!’

  The commander turned as they passed, grinning widely, ‘Good luck…’ His eyes narrowed as the two figures ran across the snow, the two white mottled FW190s stood some one hundred and fifty metres further. The engines seemed to hum as ground crews completed final checks, the pilots saluting them in gratitude as they approached, receiving grins and waves of encouragement in return.

  The loose snow flurried upwards as two fighters opposite slowly taxied forward, the pilots pulling their canopies closed as they bid saluted farewells, another camouflaged FW190 lumbering from behind. Engine noise began to increase as throttles were applied, the two remaining pilots clambering onto the rear of their wings and into their cockpits, Ernst waving one last time at his commander as the propeller surged in power, the fighter jolting forward slightly before gathering speed and turning away.

  The senior officer watched as the planes lined up, imagining the waves between the pilots as he had once done, the drone of the engines preventing shouts. Then the snow rose and billowed, the wheels rolling forward as the five planes gathered speed, his eyes filling with emotion as the aircraft began to accelerate, his sight straining against the light as they rose slowly into the air in unison.

  Stiffening and swallowing hard, he turned uncomfortably, pressing his walking stick into the snow to support his wounded and burnt right leg, his head shaking as his thoughts drifted back to his own career, ‘One day I will be up there again…then we will have some competition, my young Ernst!’

  The five FW190s continued rising, flying low over trees and hamlets as they gradually gained altitude, the snow fields and small dwellings sweeping past below on either side, the radio static crackling as the flight leader’s voice burst through, ‘Good you could join us Ernst! Now…we continue north, gain height and find these pesky Russkie Yaks and Sturmoviks…chase them off and then escort the fighter bombers through…they will follow us.’ The leader grinned, ‘Don’t eat during the fight Brandt…’

  Chapter Twenty Eight: Russian Positioning

  Captain Medvedev stared at the map on the table before him, his teeth grinding in anger and dread at the red lines crudely added across the terrain, the progress of German divisions clearly slicing through the flanks of advancing Russian units. Candles flickered across the wide table, the basement forward command bunker on the outskirts of Kharkov his designated position. The officer straightened, sighing and adjusting his cap, running a hand across the back of his neck nervously, the stubby short hairs bristling against his fingers.

  The two radio operators who sat in the corners of the dimly lit room spoke furtively into their microphones, meticulously jotting down orders or situation reports with their pencils, the rough paper then passed forward to the General and his staff at the end of the room. Thick clouds of cigarette smoke hung just below the stained and smeared ceiling, the senior officer staff and radio soldiers smoking continuously as they received the grim progress of the breaking offensive.

  The robust senior commander tossed one of the reports to the side in disgust, rising reluctantly from his seat, his dark brown uniform complimented by a variety of medals across the chest. Shaking his head and running a nervous hand through short grey hair, his beady eyes glanced across at the staff officers before him, several straightening from staring down at the operational maps, his raised tone full of distain, ‘The fascists are on the move again! Where…we don’t know at present, but we must presume here…this city was relinquished too easily in their retreat. We took it just two weeks ago…’ He shook his head in sarcastic annoyance, ‘They are stubborn pig-headed bastards! They will want the city back…they have even used their precious SS units now in desperation…the chosen battalions and legions of their puppet vegetarian, non-drinking leader! They left the city to us…so they will want to reclaim it!’ He drew breath, staring defiantly across the room, ‘We will defeat them…slaughter their best soldiers and show no mercy, destroy their hopes and morale…it is Stalin’s order! We will obliterate them and drive them back, tear the hope from their hearts…show the world that the fascists are finished! Stalin wishes the war won on the southern front this year and we will provide him with this victory!’

  He glanced across the officers before him as if to seek their resolve, his eyes coming to rest on Medvedev, ‘You…captain! You will organise our defence of the forward lines beyond the edge of the city and surrounding countryside…send reconnaissance out to determine their intent and strength and report back…the others will support you with whatever you need in manpower. Stalin has ordered we stop the Germans, and that is what will happen…need I remind you what will occur if we fail?’

  Captain Medvedev shook his head, lowering his gaze obediently as he swallowed hard to suppress the nervous tension rising in his stomach, regretting attending the briefing and the rising dread, ‘I only hope my efforts will meet with your approval, Comrade General…’

  To the South:

  Sniper rifles cracked to either side through the bushes, the Russian officer running at a low crouch along the back of his men, the grey padded soldiers pushing themselves down into the snow bank, the German line approximately one hundred metres away. Turning, he stared out across the Donetz River, the low mist clinging to the iced surface. His eyes narrowed, seeing the dark outlines of tanks and several BA-64 armoured cars break from behind houses and their treed cover, the turret muzzles flashing as they fired on the smouldering German line behind him.

  Distant brown uniformed over-coated infantry surged from cover, struggling through the snow to gain the cover of the rear of their armour. An eruption of heavy machine gun fire to his rear, the rattling drone of MG42s and higher toned MG34s firing out towards the advancing enemy. The whoosh of shells overhead as the officer turned, seeing the shattering detonations amongst the trees on either side, his shout urging, ‘Lay smoke…forward!’

  The grey clad soldiers rose up from the slope, carefully chosen to be between the German machine gun positions and within the arcs, their bodies lowering as they charged forward, the screams of ‘Hurrah’ filling the cold crisp air, the smoke billowing round their silhouettes as they advanced. The few German riflemen defending gasped in fear, several desperately pulling bolts back on their Kar 98 weapons, the rest of the line concentrating on advancing armour on the other side of the frozen river. Bullets from PPSH submachine guns peppered the trees and defences as grenades detonated amongst the branches, the helmets ducking down as the Russians surged forward, rifle shots from snipers picking off the bolder defenders.

  Charging into the trees, the PPSH muzzles flashed as the Russian infantry fired down into makeshift defences, screams of fear and terror as the defenders were cut down, several shudderi
ng as multiple bullets penetrated their snow coated greatcoats, blood splattering across the shallow trench walls and emplacements. Bayonets were brutally thrust through tunics, the Russian infantry despatching the defenders around them with merciless efficiency, their commander urging them further forward, the figures running through the defences and into a narrow forest. Cutting down any Germans that escaped and fled before them, they progressed quickly into the trees. The commander glanced eastwards, glimpsing a German armoured carrier moving up in the distance, several soldiers lumbering slowly through deep snow behind. Grinning, he waved his men on…they had broken through with the loss of only six men. Behind them, twenty one defenders lay dead or mortally wounded, the surprise and swiftness of a merciless attack with overwhelming firepower having proven very effective.

  The few Russian tanks ground forward, tracks tearing through in deep snow as the crews swore under their breaths at the slow progress, the lend lease British Matilda and Valentine armoured vehicles struggling to gain traction in an environment they had never been designed for. To the east of the line due to miscommunication, fighters strafed the defensive positions, the Yaks and Sturmoviks flying low over the terrain as their forward guns blazed, a couple of the damaged planes banking away to the north, thin black smoke trails in their wakes.

  Red hot tracer and glowing bullets pounded the tank hulls, bouncing and ricocheting across the armoured plate as the clanking inside became almost unbearably deafening. Muffled screams and pained shouts from outside compounded the slow advance, the supporting infantry hit by shrapnel and high velocity rounds as they cowered behind the armoured vehicles.

  Juri Pavlov stared through one of the upper periscopes of his Valentine, the flashes of machine gun and rifle fire filling the trees and bushes ahead, the tank jolting as the thin tracks spun once more, unable to gain grip in the broken snow. Swearing, the twenty-seven-year-old blonde turret gunner shouted desperately, ‘More power…we need to keep moving…the infantry is getting slaughtered behind!’

  The driver screamed in aggravation, the engine roaring, ‘This is not a T34 from the motherland…the tracks are too narrow for grip! If I push them more, they will break…’ The Valentine slewed to the left, the right track gaining some grip on broken branches, the tank swerving and jolting to a halt, nearly hitting a nearby Matilda as the engine stalled, the driver slamming his fist against the plate above in frustration, then re-gripping the control levers, ‘This is hopeless! These are useless off the roads…these machines cannot fight!’

  Juri pushed himself backwards, turning the controls for the electric turret as the engine coughed, then roared reluctantly into life once more, the ducking infantry behind smacking their rifle butts against the hull in bitter resentment. Bullets clattered against the side armoured plate, causing his body to jerk sideways instinctively in fear, the turret turning further as he strained to stare through the targeting sight, his shoulders pressing against the pads before the 57mm gun.

  The distant flashes of gunfire from the treeline on the other side of the river continued, clanks of bullets and tracers bouncing off the hull as frantic muffled shouts and screams filled the air around them. The tank shuddered as the main gun fired, Juri bouncing backwards in his seat as the turret bucked, the high explosive shell exploding on the river bank frustratingly short of the German defensive line.

  He thrust his body forward, staring back through the sights as the clank of another shell into the smouldering open breach next to him filled the turret, his eyes widening in horror to glimpse the two bright flashes from the defensive line ahead on either side, his mouth widening to shout in disbelieving fear, ‘Fascist anti-tank guns! They said there were none in the trees!’

  The German Pak 40 anti-tank commanders had waited with baited breath, the experienced crews ducking into improvised defensive shelter as the shells had rained down on their positions, the focus concentrated on any possible advance. Keen to conceal their existence from any scouts, they had covered the guns with netting and branches, setting the artillery pieces back from the designated front line to avoid detection and covering them heavily in snow and foliage. Two of the guns had been destroyed, the depleted crew members of the existing guns supplemented by the survivors from their other unit artillery pieces, one of the officers shouting desperately into their radio.

  Glowing shells swept past his sight, the explosions behind rocking the Valentine, blood curdling screams filling Juri’s ears as the following infantry were torn by shrapnel, dismembered bodies tossed upwards as frames shattered under intense pressure. Blood splattered against the tank hull, body parts clanking against the steel plate as Juri winced, the beating of survivors fists on the outside distinct as they shouted, a number of great coated figures turning to stagger away shell shocked.

  Juri screamed in rising fear, ‘Move! We are a sitting target!’ The gears ground and squealed, the driver swearing once more, the tank swaying forward and back as the engine roared, ‘The tracks are stuck…again!’

  The commander spun round to stare at his driver, shouting more desperately, ‘They are reloading…move it!’ The engine pitch rose to a scream, the armoured vehicle’s tracks spinning through the deep snow, the driver swearing aloud in frustration as the hammering continued on the outer plate, Juri lowering his eyes through the viewing slit in increasing nervousness.

  Bright flashes came from deep in the distant undergrowth once more, glowing shells zipping out over the river, Juri’s mouth opening to shout as the tank rocked, flame and intense light searing through the darkness as the shell penetrated the lower hull. Overpowering heat filled the roaring cabin, the energy displacement causing rivets to glow red hot before punching inside the crippled hull, slicing through scorched flesh at high speed as the interior erupted. The hatches burst open forcefully, flames pouring upwards as dense black smoke billowed around the crippled armoured vehicle.

  Several infantry were thrown from near the vehicle sides, their eardrums perforated and bodies jarred from the impact and shock wave, many attempting to scramble away as fire engulfed the hull, the cracks of machine gun ammunition beginning to explode and ricochet inside.

  A German MG34 machine gun was redirected by a nearby officer, his binoculars lowering as he shouted frantically, his right arm gesturing, ‘Achtung! Richts!’ The gunner swung the barrel round, glimpsing the distant snow covered great-coated figures scramble away, another tank burning near the river bank, the enemy attack floundering in deep snow as the infantry sought further cover. Many figures were ducking behind rises and broken bushes, a number seeking cover in the small copses of trees and several damaged outbuildings to the far right, an entire section clambering into the barn. The tanks rumbled forward towards the river bank, several infantrymen behind them glancing round nervously as they ducked behind the armoured plate.

  The machine gun barked, the muzzle flashing as bursts of bullets zipped towards the scrambling soldiers, the projectiles whipping through the snow next to the figures as several twisted and fell, their screams drowned out as further cracks of ammunition from the burning tank resounded across the terrain.

  The Sturmoviks and Yaks began to gradually bank away, their ammunition exhausted as fires raged through the trees to the far right, the defensive line smouldering as smoke billowed upwards. Groaning and shocked German infantry resumed their positions, the pained shouts for ‘Medic’ resounding through the undergrowth.

  The Hanomag ground to a halt near the battered treeline, the tyres slewing sideways in drifting snow, the Maybach engine roaring as Hase attempted to advance the vehicle further into the undergrowth. Tatu lowered cautiously behind the upper armoured shield as the tracks squealed, the halftrack lurching back, then forwards once more, the carrier rising into the trees as the occupants grasped the sides, branches cracking and scraping against the pock marked and scratched outer hull. Lumbering forward, three bewildered soldiers before them scrambled to the sides to allow the carrier to pass, branches and roots splintering ben
eath the wide tyres as the Hanomag neared the front of the trees.

  Leutnant Hausser rose up next to Tatu, both bodies showered in snow and debris as he lowered his padded elbows onto the upper armoured plate and raised the binoculars. The Romanian slammed his fist on the steel cover above the driver’s compartment, becoming afraid they would emerge from the undergrowth. The young commander turned, staring into the eyes of Petru and Sergeant Moretti, ‘Achtung! Aus! Join the line with Tatu and myself…’

  Hase scrambled from the front seat, the engine abruptly cut as Tatu reached for his PPSH submachine gun, Hausser raising the binoculars once more to stare across the river, smoke grenades puffing on the opposite bank as more infantry emerged from the village at the top of the slope. The figures crouched as BA-64 armoured cars swerved and jolted from the sides of the buildings, their machine guns flashing towards the trees south of the river. The young commander turned, fear in his tone as he shouted at the men preparing their weapons to disembark, ‘Full scale Russkie assault…reinforced with second wave and armoured cars…warn the infantry!’

  The tanks ground forward, four now burning on the slope opposite as the Hanomag’s rear doors creaked open, Petru waving at a gasping Udet as he neared the trees, the Fallschirmjager struggling through deep snow behind, ‘Get into cover…more Russkies are coming!’

  The young German nodded in shock, scrambling along the side of the Hanomag as Hase dragged the bolt back on the MG34 above, Hausser shouting at the soldiers in the shallow trenches as he leapt from the open rear, Tatu slamming the doors shut, ‘Concentrate fire when they get closer…aim at the officers if you can see them!’ He jumped into one of the emplacements, throwing his body forward between two riflemen, his MP40 rising as he exhaled heavily.