Rise of the Bloodied Phoenix

by Andrew McGregor

  Passing parked lorries on the sides of the tracks, the Hanomag once again emerged into the town square, the gallows and blood stained wall at the far end now empty. Fallschirmjager troops were assisting the unloading of supply boxes, two 20mm anti-aircraft quad guns now situated behind sandbagged positions in the centre of the wide opening, Hausser realising a statue was situated in the middle of the square, the pock marked ornate depiction of a man on a horse going unnoticed in the darkness of the night before.

  Several fires burned across the cold snowed cement, the oil drums flickering fiercely as smoke rose high into the frozen air, billowing around the soldiers that stood next to them for warmth, their hands outstretched towards the heat. Several glanced round as the gears clanked, Hase sighing as Petru grinned next to him, slapping him on the shoulder as he chuckled.

  Bedraggled and withdrawn civilians and residents stared up at the carrier as it slowly turned round the emplacements, the gunner crews raising gloved hands in greeting. The tracks clattered briefly across bare frozen cobblestones as it surged forward into the main street leading north, a Wehrmacht sign indicating the road to ‘Charkow’ (Kharkov) was ahead, the sound of distant gunfire getting louder.

  Udet stared upwards as the drone of engines became audible, glimpsing the high dots of fighters and bombers overhead, the pilots staring down onto the white terrain below, the planes ordered to clear the path for the final drive north.

  Having rested for the night after a long slow drive through the snow, the armoured carrier roared on along the track, Leutnant Hausser indicating to the fields on either side as they headed slightly to the north west, soldiers trudging slowly across the white terrain. As they progressed, the engine whined in the cold air, Udet staring skywards with more aircraft passing overhead, Tatu shaking his head and grinning ironically, ‘Where were all these pilots and aircraft when we were at Stalingrad?’

  Hausser bit his lower lip, seeing the glimmer of humour in the Romanian’s eyes as Moretti giggled from the back of the Hanomag, the commander sighing, ‘You old fool, they are short range aircraft and were probably on other parts of the front…’ He winked at Udet, indicating to the radio, ‘Anyway…where is the Romanian air force…I thought we were allies?’

  Tatu grimaced, realising he would not win this particular game, ‘Planes of Romania are flying over the Crimea and Odessa…they protect the Ploesti oilfields of our alliance, the fuel feeding your Maybach engines deep in Russia…’ He nodded at Hausser, grinning and rubbing his moustache, ‘Yes, some have been bought from Germany…your Messerschmitt’s 109s and 110s seem very popular…’

  The young commander slapped his arm reassuringly, ‘Good answer, Sergeant…’ He lowered next to Udet, the young German raising the radio headphones to his ears, ‘Now let’s see if Major Wolff is in a good mood this morning, then we can get ready for the north and Kharkov…’

  Static surged through the headphones, Udet speaking softly into the microphone as the speaker burbled, his eyes widening as the response was almost instantaneous, ‘Yes…I have Leutnant Hausser here…’ He glanced round, seeing the young commander’s surprise, ‘…Major Wolff is coming to the radio, Hausser.’

  He handed the earphones across, Hausser raising them slowly to his ears, a familiar voice filling the headset, ‘Leutnant Hausser?’

  The young commander nodded as Tatu grinned further, ‘Herr Major, good to hear your voice…we are progressing northwards as ordered, though behind schedule…’ He sighed, ‘Apologies about yesterday, we tried to get through but apparently you were unavailable…’

  The major smiled as he heard the junior officer’s voice, ‘Yes, I was at the front with my men.’ He shifted his stance, ‘I received word of a Luftwaffe intervention two nights ago in a village to the south…apparently a small unit under my command was there…have you been making friends with the Fallschirmjagers? The Fourth Air Fleet has backed their junior commander at Von Manstein’s headquarters…apparently an SS adjutant was most distressed at the situation, but never the less was overruled by none other than one of the Field Marshall’s senior officers.’ He smirked at the officer manning the radio next to him, ‘So, I congratulate you on the accomplishment of your personal mission, but let us limit the interference with my orders for the next couple of days…where are you exactly?’

  A smile crept across Leutnant Hausser’s face, ‘We are further north of the village and heading north west to join the main advance I think. Wehrmacht units are moving up on either side and the front seems to be getting closer as the gunfire is getting louder…there is also distant firing to the south west. Is there anyone we should make contact with?’

  Wolff shook his head, raising a cigarette to his lips, ‘No, I want you to join the advance into the city, then contact me for further orders…we are further north and experiencing enemy probes…I feel the battle is about to become very interesting in conclusion.’ He drew on the smoke, blowing it towards the cracked ceiling of the basement headquarters, ‘Keep going and assist the advance when needed…I have an intriguing proposition for you when you get here…Major Wolff out.’ He lowered the headset abruptly, returning it to the junior officer and enjoying the anticipated possible intrigue he had created.

  Hausser handed the microphone to Udet, sitting back on the bench and staring skywards thoughtfully as to what the officer had meant, the rumble of artillery and engines from the north west echoing across the terrain, Moretti extending a steaming mess tin towards him.

  Continuing for three hours, the carrier swayed back and forth as it negotiated the uneven track, abandoned equipment and weapons beneath the snow causing hidden obstacles. Hase studied the blanket of snow before the carrier and attempted to follow the deep grooved track marks of vehicles that had preceded them, gritting his teeth as he glimpsed the occasional contorted body in the ditch to either side, a frozen limb extending from the snow as final futile gesture. Seeing lorries parked under a small clearing in the trees to the right, Petru leant forward to scrutinise the soldiers unloading and nodding, ‘Mortar shells…we must be getting close…’ He pointed to the three small tracked single manned vehicles the boxes were being loaded onto, two with rear carriages attached, ‘Kettenkrads…they will bring the ammunition to the front units. We must be nearing the front line…’ He turned, raising his voice, ‘Herr Leutnant…forward artillery positions are ahead.’

  Tatu stared towards the north, hearing his countryman below, lines of snow laden trees breaking the terrain, his eyes straining as he glimpsed the tanks at the border of the next field, the hulks of long barrelled Panzer IVs and Panzer III support vehicles spaced across the flat expanse under the cover of foliage, their barrels facing north and awaiting the supporting infantry to arrive. His hand rose to the defensive shield as the first Kettenkrad’s slim tracks spun, the rider wearing an insulated padded uniform and dark goggles as he twisted the throttle, the small carrier jolting forward and into the trees as he sought the forward heavy mortar unit.

  Leutnant Hausser rose to his feet as Tatu turned to speak, gesturing towards the dull sky ahead with rising adrenalin, the Romanian noticing Hanomags and trucks behind them on the track, the rear compartments full of infantry, ‘Luftwaffe planes are readying to attack the enemy positions…and in an assembly area ahead…they seem busy. The tanks are under the trees, but infantry moving across the field beyond…’

  The young officer raised the binoculars handed to him by Udet, twisting the zoom as he stared northwards. Through the trees, he glimpsed the armoured hulks of the Panzers, black dressed crews moving between them, a commander gesturing towards the north from his turret. Beyond on the snowed expanse, distant silhouettes walked forward across the white terrain, the figures spaced out as they advanced.

  Five hundred metres away to the right and in trees, the forward assembly area was a hive of activity, soldiers moving boxes across and loading several Hanomags, the young officer’s eyes resting on the armoured vehicles beyond, two whitewash camouflaged Sturm
geschutz III self-propelled assault guns sitting alongside three Marder III tank destroyers, the crews loading additional shells and machine gun ammunition into their vehicles.

  Slowly he lowered the glasses, turning to face Tatu, his determination rising, ‘We seem to have arrived just before the attack is unleashed, those look like forward SS units with the Wehrmacht…they must have repositioned during the night from the west…’ He grinned, the Romanian’s eyes narrowing as the young commander slammed his fist onto the upper armoured plate, raising his voice, ‘Pull into the area ahead…let us see if they have orders for us. We will join with their advance.’

  Chapter Forty: The Russian Defences

  Captain Medvedev ran along the rear of the makeshift defences, staring wide eyed at the bedraggled soldiers that manned the thin line. Most wore greatcoats, some in padded uniforms, the soldiers glancing fearfully at each other as they stared out across the fields to the south. Shaking his head, he realised most of the men were from differing units, some even rear supply troops and perhaps cooks or drivers, his dread rising as he considered their front line experience would be limited and that casualties would be high.

  Having driven there in the early morning, the Russian captain was becoming increasingly alarmed at the strength of forces defending the lower lands before Kharkov. Finally reaching the front line after a five hour drive in half darkness, they had had to stop under trees several times as German fighter planes scoured the countryside for targets, the American made jeep now parked some distance away to the rear and hidden under trees in a supply depot.

  Distant explosions echoed further to the west, the armour of SS and Wehrmacht tanks attacking the lines with heavy fighting further south west, the remaining units of a failed Russian advance fighting for their lives as the Panzers swept past along the flanks, the Luftwaffe bombing and strafing their positions from above almost continuously.

  Dropping into a shallow gun emplacement, he raised battered binoculars to his eyes, staring across the terrain below, the land gradually declining southwards. The gun crew smoked nervously around him, smoke billowing into the cold crisp air as they glanced apprehensively down the slope, the 76mm pak gun one of six in the immediate line. Lines of dark smoke rose upwards from a couple of farmsteads to the west, the residents hiding in outhouses as German tanks lumbered past with supporting infantry, the armour approaching the makeshift line.

  Panning the binoculars round, Medvedev stared down the slope, glimpsing distant silhouettes moving forward across the snow towards them as he bit his lower lip and turned away. Considering the German armour must be further west, he indicated to the anti-tank commander, ‘Fascist infantry are coming…I see no tanks as yet…but the fighting is apparently heavy on your far right.’

  The young officer nodded in agreement, raising his own glasses, ‘We have several machine guns and mortars…we should be able to hold them.’ His tone became uncertain, ‘Will we get any air support or long range artillery?’

  Medvedev shook his head, ‘Unlikely…the Luftwaffe is too strong at present…we are moving more planes across and strengthening the defences before the city.’ He pointed into the distance, indicating to several fighters circling and then glancing across the defences to either side as his adrenalin rose, ‘They are probably above their main force and will attack when the infantry nears…make sure you keep your heads down…we need these guns.’

  The artillery officer spat into the snow in disgust, ‘We have some armoured support to the east and west…T34s on wide tracks for grip. Do we have any intelligence on what the enemy have in this sector?’

  The captain grinned ironically before turning away to head along the line at a crouch, ‘We did not think they were even strong enough to launch an attack, let alone what they have. We were told the enemy was finished at Stalingrad…that was only just over a month ago…I was there!’

  Running further, he saw a track ahead, his breathing laboured as the uncomfortable excitement of dread rose, his orders to strengthen the defences and provide full reports of the German advance seeming more like a heavy stone slung round his neck, a probable death sentence at the hands of the commissars if the enemy broke through towards Kharkov.

  Glimpsing Russian tank hulls in a copse of trees to his left, he shook his head, seeing further pak guns hidden in undergrowth further along the defences. His chest heaved in the cold air as he realised there was now little sign of coordinated reserves behind the front line, the Russian High Command urgently moving more divisions into the area…divisions that were yet to arrive. He considered running back to the forward command post to report what he had seen by radio, then hesitated as several infantrymen turned to stare at him, dropping to one knee in weariness and despondency, knowing he would just be berated and told to hold the enemy. His breath caught in his throat as he heard the crumps of artillery fire far to the south…the eastern attack towards Kharkov was about to begin.

  Captain Medvedev slowly turned to stare southwards, seeing the distant dots of Luftwaffe planes bank sharply, then fly directly towards them, the fighters and bombers seeming to hang in the air as they swept forward.

  Violent explosions rocked the terrain, the detonations throwing frozen earth and bodies skywards as the shrill cracking of trees and branches resounded around him. Throwing himself face forward into the iced snow, the explosive blast waves swept across his frame as it shuddered, dirt and debris smashing onto his figure as his hands swept over his helmet.

  Screams filled his ears, the Russian soldiers cowering in shallow foxholes as eruptions swept through the undergrowth, tossing comrades and equipment skywards, glowing razor sharp shrapnel from high explosive shells sweeping to either side and tearing through uniforms and flesh. Flames poured upwards, ammunition exploding and searing the trees and bushes, the men next to it fragmented or torn to a bloodied pulp from the shattering blast waves and detonations.

  Then distant high pitched whines and shrieks filled the air, his body rising and running automatically as a Nebelwerfer battery opened fire, the rockets surging into the cold sky as his head twisted to stare, plumes of lined smoke in their wake. Then he gasped, hearing the high scream of Stuka sirens above.

  Scrambling through the snow, Medvedev shook his head in confusion, further eruptions sweeping out, his body thrown violently sideways with a blast wave, the air forced from his chest as he landed roughly, the right eardrum perforated. He shook painfully, pushing his body low in terror, the debris rained down, smacking against his tensed limbs and frame as acrid smoke swept over his prone trembling figure, his chest heaving while he retched uncontrollably.

  Engines roared above, his head shaking as he glanced upwards through swirling black smoke, the Luftwaffe fighters soaring upwards and banking sharply to the east and west. Bullets peppered the snow on either side, more muffled screams from the emplacements in the treeline as the infantry cowered in terror. He stared wide eyed at the black crosses as the fighters seemed to skim the treetops, roaring back towards the south to commence another run.

  Tears filled his eyes as he glimpsed the burning trees, smouldering hulks of T34 tanks crackling and burning fiercely, the smashed frames of pak guns laying shattered in their emplacements. Dead crewman lay all around the trees and bushes, bloodied still uniforms staining the snow as several stunned and shocked men attempted to crawl away, engines roaring as the few surviving machines rolled forward, the tracks whining.

  Medvedev thrust his head down further as fire leapt upwards, another tank exploding, the mechanical Stuka screams becoming almost intoxicating, surging through his chest as engines roared above, the bombs dropping on predetermined targets, the Fiesler Storch observation aircraft pinpointing the Russian armour positions. More explosions rocked the positions nearby, detonations sweeping all along the line as broken bodies and equipment were thrown skywards, the deaths instantaneous.

  The Stuka dive bombers roared upwards, banking round to fly back southwards, the pilots and rear gunners staring dow
n onto the smouldering body strewn terrain, plumes of black smoke rising from the defensive line as fires raged below.

  A sudden silence filled the air, broken sporadically by the dull detonations and the moaning from the front line, many of the broken soldiers crawling from their shattered positions. Captain Medvedev slowly raised his head, loud ringing and gurgling in his right ear as he reached upwards, his eyes staring at the bloodied glove as it lowered, his senses reeling.

  Glancing round, he gasped for breath, his chest excruciatingly painful as he stared across the scorched snow, body parts with broken rifles and boxes laying all around him. Shouts of agony filled his one ear, his head shaking as he tried to lose the blurred vision, a hand fumbling for his pistol. Thrusting upwards, he swallowed bile, forcing the overpowering acidic taste back into his throat, his head turning from side to side frantically.

  Smoke swept over him, his stomach turning as the stench of burning flesh and fuel engulfed his nostrils and senses, his legs staggering as he lunged towards the defensive positions, hearing wailing from wounded men on either side. Several soldiers ran past him from the rear, a couple of wounded crawling from shallow defences out onto the snow, one with a blood trail behind.

  Then Captain Medvedev’s eyes narrowed, the distant squeal of tracks resounding up the slope, his mouth opening to shout hoarsely as he stumbled into the burning treeline, ‘Make ready! Fascist tanks! No retreat!’ He glanced round, vision still blurred as he glimpsed the field gun to the right, the barrel bent upwards and commander dead with his men, the forward gun shield warped and stained with blood.

  Chapter Forty One: Sturmgeschutz III and Tank Destroyers