Blitzfreeze (Cassell Military Paperbacks)

by Sven Hassel

  A colossal orange fire-ball springs upwards with unbelievable force from the bushes close to the leading P-IV. The Panzer infantry throw themselves from the vehicles and take cover. With frightened eyes and hammering hearts they wait for death. An automatic cannon sprays the terrain. 20 mm projectiles ricochet from the steel sides of the tanks. A great wall of fire rises up in front of us. A flaming roller-curtain rolling the wrong way. It comes from the woods, shoots skyward in thousands of coruscating colour nuances, bends forward, and falls in our direction.

  ‘Stalin Organ,’ mumbles Heide frightenedly, and ducks reflexively under the Funker-MG.6

  In a long-drawn horrifying thunder the rockets fall. Buildings are literally shaved off the face of the earth.

  ‘Panzer, forward march!’ snarls a hoarse voice through the speaker. But before the drivers can get into gear, the next salvo falls.

  Porta speeds up his motor. We burst forward through mud and water. The Maybach screams at full power. Tracks whip at the mud, throwing great clods of earth high into the air.

  In Spas-Demensk the streets are all ablaze. As we pass a large house the roof falls inwards and a rain of sparks and burning wood is thrown out over the Panzer column. A piece of burning wood falls through the hatch of our tank and sets fire to a pack. A sugar factory burns with a blinding white flame. Immediately after we have passed it a sugar-tank explodes and sprays glowing sugar far and wide. A P-III explodes right in the middle of the boiling mass.

  The Panzer column halts for a moment and the guns roar. Burst-flames spring up everywhere. Artillery, grenade-throwers, machine-guns and tanks in a hell of death and destruction.

  Shovels and picks ring. The wide tracks scream deafeningly. Tanks move slowly forward through fallen walls and twisted girders. Thick strangling smoke covers them.

  The forward units guide us by wireless. No other army in the world is so well-trained in keeping contact as is the German. We even maintain contact with the heavy artillery far behind us. Our 75 mm guns cannot touch the giant Russian KW-2s, and our tactic is to hang on to them, worry them, smash their tracks until they cannot move, and then call on the heavy artillery and direct its fire by wireless until the giant is smashed.

  No. 1. Battalion is in contact with the enemy trenches and PAK. Hordes of blood-spattered soldiers rush past us on the road. Our infantry has already suffered terrible losses.

  Step by step we move forward. Porta takes his cue from the exhaust flame of the lead-tank. A frightful explosion shatters a P-III. It lights up with a blueish flame, then breaks up and disappears in a coal-black blanket of smoke. Trails of tracer hasten questingly towards the enemy position.

  A BT-67 comes charging out from a side-road. It shoots up over an earthwork into the air and lands again with a deafening crash ramming a P-III and turning it on its side. It spins like a top and makes for us.

  I just manage to catch it in the periscope and fire without aiming. Our shell bursts on the turret in a shower of sparks. With a crash both tanks ram one another, and we tumble around inside our vehicle.

  The Old Man tears open the hatch and pops up simultaneously with the commander of the BT-6. The Old Man is quickest. He fires first. Tiny springs from the side door with an S-mine clutched in his hands. He scrambles across the tanks and lobs his mine through the BT-6’s open hatch. Seconds later fire jets from its slits and it becomes a heap of junk.

  With the help of tow-wires the Legionnaire pulls us free of the wreck. Raging, our company officer, Oberleutnant Moser, chases us.

  A 37 mm PAK comes down on us. It is inside a house shooting through a window.

  ‘Aim four o’clock, enemy PAK 125 metres! Explosive shells! Fire!’ It’s too easy. I can hardly be bothered to take aim properly. The turret whirrs. The long barrel of the gun swings round. The PAK fires again. They might as well be using pea-shooters. Muzzle and impact explosions sound almost simultaneously. The house and the PAK disappear – nothing is left of them.

  ‘Any more for any more?’ questions Porta, moving slowly forward. With a lurch the tank tips into a deep shell-hole. Its nose bores into soft earth.

  Porta changes swiftly into back gear, but the tracks only whip around without taking hold. He tries to wobble us free but we are caught. Tiny has a long slash on his face from the corner of an ammunition locker. He has fallen forward together with his shells on top of Heide who is jammed between the wireless and the Funker-MG. He is yelling that his hand has been torn off. Later it turns out that he has broken a finger. Annoying when there has to be a casualty that it should only be a broken finger. Not enough to get you out of the wagon for a couple of days.

  The Old Man slides over the ammunition basket and gets his arm jammed under the oil-pressure gauge. I have fallen over Porta and get the gear-lever in the crutch. I’m going mad with the pain but it won’t get me a hospital ticket.

  It takes Barcelona’s wagon almost fifteen minutes to pull us out. Oberleutnant Moser’s language can be heard far and wide. He is certain we did it on purpose.

  ‘One more of those and you’re for a court-martial!’ he rages.

  ‘His mother must have been pissed when she got him,’ Porta mutters contemptuously. ‘He talks as if he’s nearly ready to spew his lights up!’

  We take up position close by the burnt-out hospital. Nobody really knows what is happening. The company’s twenty-two tanks are drawn up in one long open row. The guns point expectantly and threateningly forward. We can hear No. 8 Company taking up position on the other side of the river. The rest of the battalion is in readiness down by the sugar factory.

  Morning breaks, heavily veiled in fog. That’s the worst of being close to water. Morning and night you’re wrapped in an impenetrable witch’s broth of mist. The heavy weapons are silent. A couple of MGs on the other side of the water are all that can be heard. Nobody has any idea where the infantry is. We don’t even know if they’ve got through the enemy lines. We have a frightful feeling of being all alone in the hugeness of Russia. Slowly the fog lifts and darkness recedes. Houses and trees take on a shadowy outline and form.

  The Panzer infantry moves up in single file, close to the houses, and groups by the tanks. Our guns and MGs break out in a thundering, flaming barrage. The earth shakes and shivers under the bellowing cannonade, long flames shoot from gun-muzzles. An umbrella of tracer covers the terrain.

  The regular infantry makes ground in short advances. We shoot just above their heads in a precisely calculated covering fire. It’s no fun moving with shells howling overhead. If they drop short the infantry gets it in the neck and it can happen that the soldier behind the gun is an incompetent fool. It doesn’t help the man on the receiving end of a shell to know the gunner behind him will be court-martialled for dropping short.

  A long way forward brown uniformed figures are running away from us. They disappear into the fog. Over a hundred tanks hammer shells into the enemy ranks. Disorganized and panic stricken the Russians withdraw to prepared positions.

  We are drawn up in ranks as if at firing-practice. Only here the targets are live. Carelessly we leave all hatches open but suddenly a storm of enemy artillery fire breaks over our attacking infantry. They scuttle about digging themselves in. Shells hail from the heavens. Bodies are thrown again and again into the air. Red-hot shell fragments slash terrible wounds. Screams and moans rise from the fox-holes.

  A new surprise awaits us. A long line of enemy anti-tank guns move into position. Quickly they range in on us and in the course of a few moments the action develops into a raging duel between our and their guns. The first two PAKs fly to pieces but the others know their job. One of No. 8 Company’s tanks blows up.

  Barcelona reports a hit on the turret. His gun is out of commission and he must go back to workshops.

  A second later we are on the receiving end of a direct hit on our forward shielding. The screaming clang of the explosion is so loud that we are totally deaf for several minutes. An oil lead bursts and drowns the cabin with heav
y oil. If we had not reinforced the front shield ourselves with sections of track the shell would have penetrated it and blown us to pieces. It would have gone straight through Porta and struck the ammunition rack behind me.

  Shortly after, the Legionnaire reports hits in the under-belly and damage to his gun. He too must go back to workshops. Three of No. 4 Section’s wagons are on fire. They explode before any of the crew can get out.

  A new hit shatters the gear-box and we can no longer manoeuvre. This is the worst thing that can happen to a tank. When it loses its mobility it becomes a sitting duck for a PAK.

  Porta jogs us slowly into cover behind a hill. We get to work on the gear-box with our emergency tools. We bang away with the sweat pouring off us. We have to change three links in the tracks as well. A hell of a job. Luckily a workshop truck turns up with special tools and a crane, and things go more quickly. In half an hour we are back in position and helping in the attack on the Russian PAK. But in short order seven of our tanks are reduced to wreckage.

  Grey beetles creep forward in line from the edge of the woods. Momentarily we believe them to be self-propelled anti-tank guns. We are undeceived when No. 3 Section swings round to take them on. They are far more dangerous opponents. Five T-34s and ten T-60s. At 800 metres the leading T-60s go up in blue flames. Like factory chimneys they send black oily smoke up into the sky.

  We twist madly to avoid the well-aimed shells from the T-34s. This tank is the most dangerous of all; the Red Army’s finest weapon. Three of our P-IVs are in flames. Two others withdraw seriously damaged. A P-III is hit by two shells simultaneously. An 88 mm FLAK battery comes to our aid. In the course of a few minutes the enemy armour is destroyed. These heavy anti-aircraft guns are wonderful anti-tank weapons. The new shells they are using are highly penetrative.

  The 27th Panzer Regiment attacks in full force and in a short time the enemy anti-tank guns are overcome. The regiment rolls over them.

  Our vehicle has to go into field workshops. The turret is jammed and must be lifted off for new rings to be mounted. The rollers on one side need complete replacement.

  ‘Attack, attack!’ comes continually from Division. The enemy must under no circumstances be allowed to regroup. Keep him constantly on the move.

  We are ready to drop from fatigue; nervous blotches break out all over our bodies; we stagger like drunkards; answer wildly when spoken to.

  Every town we pass through is a smoking heap of ruins; on both sides of the track countless wrecks of tanks and stacks of bodies. Skinny dogs chew at the flesh of the dead and hens squabble over the entrails. We used to shoot at them. No more.

  Telephone-poles crash to the ground. Copper wire tangles in our tracks. Houses are ploughed down in whole rows, and the fleeing inhabitants pulped under the advancing tanks.

  ‘Move, moujiks, the Liberators are bringing you the new age! You’re to become Germans! Which is a great advantage! Or so they say in Berlin!’

  Infantrymen run panting alongside the vehicles, the tracks spattering them with mud. Automatic weapons send tracers tracking light across the terrain. Incendiary shells turn enemy nests of resistance to seas of flame.

  We pause briefly and carry out service tasks on the vehicle: change oil, clean ventilators and filters, tighten tracks. No time for sleep. The order comes as soon as our tasks are completed: ‘Panzer march!’ comes through the loud-speaker.

  A few hundred yards on a swarm of Jabos attack us. Their rockets skip over the fields. No. 1 Company is wiped out in the first minutes of the attack. Every tank is affire. The Panzer infantry flees in panic as a wave of Russian soldiers rises from the clover-fields.

  ‘Uhraeh Stalino, uhraeh Stalino!’

  Young GPU troops with the green cross on their caps, political fanatics, storm forward with bayonets at the ready.

  ‘300 metres, straight in front, enemy firing line!’ comes from the speaker. ‘Explosive shells and all automatic weapons! Fire!’

  Two hundred machine-guns and a hundred cannon thunder. All sixteen of the regiment’s companies have moved into line. The first row of young khaki-clad soldiers drops, but new ones take their place, as if rising from the earth, form up and advance.

  Artillery behind us gets the range. The attacking Guards disappear in fire and screaming steel. The sky itself seems to blaze. Every living thing is killed under the tracks. Some dive into foxholes. When we see them we stop over the hole and see-saw the wagon until the screaming soldier in it is crushed. This short, bloody, engagement will not even be mentioned in the daily report, so unimportant is it, even though it has cost several thousand humans their lives. No, sorry, not humans, merely soldiers. They’ve no connection with humanity.

  We are now moving directly north-east and reach the Smolensk-Moscow motor road. Straight as a string it runs, through swamp and forest, over rivers, swinging in smooth curves as it by-passes towns. On the way we overtake endless columns of marching infantry and horse-drawn artillery. The motorized units are further on. You can tell by the wrecked vehicles lying at the sides of the road. We pass a spot where an entire regiment has been killed with one strike. ‘Blast bombs,’ says the Old Man quietly. These wicked things, which are shot from emplaced heavy mortars, literally tear the lungs out of their victims. The regiment lies there in good order. In companies and platoons. It’s as if they’ve been given the order:

  ‘Fall out dead!’

  A single tree with naked branches remains standing in the wood. A dead horse hangs high up in it.

  ‘I hope this war ends soon,’ says Barcelona. ‘There’s no end to the hellish weapons they’ll discover if it goes on much longer.’

  ‘Might even last that long we’ll ’ave nothin’ left to shoot with an’ll ’ave to go at it with clubs,’ surmises Tiny. ‘Glad I ain’t one o’ them Tiny Tims!’

  Tired, sour fog comes down over everything in a heavy shroud, reminding us of death. The infantry marches in single file down the motor road. They sleep as they march. The old sweats are masters at it. The fog comes from the marshes, and is a real pea-souper. Visibility three feet, no more. The torsoes of the marching column are all that can be seen of them. Where the road dips they disappear entirely and suddenly pop up again on the other side. We drive along with hatches open. The drivers can see nothing and have to be directed by wireless. To an advancing army nothing is worse than fog. Continually we expect to meet the other side. They could attack and butcher us with pocket-knives before we knew they’d even arrived.

  In front of us three tanks crash into one another. One turns over on its side, and immediately the cry goes up:

  ‘Sabotage! Court-martial!’

  Confusion spreads past us and far behind.

  Two soldiers have been crushed under the overturned tank. A Luftwaffe lorry coming from the opposite direction, brakes, skids and sweeps an entire company of infantry off the road. A Jaeger officer and a Luftwaffe Leutnant quarrel wildly. ‘This’ll cost you your head,’ screams the flier hysterically. ‘The Luftwaffe won’t stand for it any more. The Army has been blackening our name since the days of St Wenceslas. Telegraphist here!’ He shouts to his men who are standing forlornly around the wrecked lorry. ‘Call the Reichmarschall’s Chief-of-Staff!’ he commands.

  ‘Sir, the wireless is out of commission,’ the Obergefreiter lisps in a pleased tone.

  ‘Sabotage!’ screams the Leutnant into the fog.

  ‘Yes, sir, sabotage, sir!’ echoes the Obergefreiter with complete indifference.

  ‘I command you to call the Reichmarschall,’ screams the Leutnant, his voice cracking. ‘If your instrument has been sabotaged, then shout man! Or march to Berlin! My order must be carried out!’

  ‘Yes sir,’ the telegraphist replies unexcitedly. He turns smartly on his heel and begins to march towards the west. He pauses alongside our wagon. Porta is lying, languidly resting across one of the tracks, chewing on a quivering chunk of brawn. He follows Churchill’s motto:

  ‘Don’t stand up if you can sit
down! Don’t sit down if you can lie down!’

  ‘D’you know the way to Berlin, chum?’

  ‘Y-e-e-ep!’ replies Porta forcing a large piece of brawn into his mouth. ‘Is the Obergefreiter on his way to Berlin?’

  ‘Your parents must have been fortune-tellers,’ grins the Luftwaffe Obergefreiter.

  ‘It’ll take some time if you intend to go on foot,’ smiles Porta. ‘Come with us to Moscow. It’s not a hundred miles. You could probably get the use of a telephone there!’

  ‘That sounds sensible,’ replies the Luftwaffe Obergefreiter, ‘but my boss has ordered me to march to Berlin and tell the Reichsmarschall that he wants to speak to him.’

  ‘Well, I suppose then you must go to Berlin,’ decides Porta. ‘An order’s an order. We Germans learn that right from the cradle. March straight down the motor road until you reach Smolensk. Follow the signposts to Minsk, but don’t over night in Tolsjeski. Those pigs will put the authorities on to you, and that will delay you at least two days. The military mind thinks slowly. When you reach Minsk look for the fountain: “The Pissing Lady”. Everybody knows where that is. Across from the statue is the cabaret called “Ludmilla’s Smile.” Contact Alexandrovna who owns it. She’ll fix you up with vodka. You can get a bed from the dealer in flour, Ivan Domasliki, an outcast Czech who lives at 9 Romaschka Street. Don’t forget to have a look at Minsk while you’re there. It’s an historically interesting town, where a great many different armies have been bashed about through the centuries. But watch your socks! The bastards who live there consider it their duty to steal from strangers. Never give them the impression that you own anything at all. Let them think you own nothing but your personal skin and bones. If you don’t you can count on getting sold either to the “Watch-dogs” or to the partisans. Whichever of them pays most’ll get you. 50 to 100 marks. For an Obergefreiter from the Luftwaffe I’d think the partisans would pay top-price. Army boys like us are only worth 50 marks. SS-men they just won’t accept. They only cause trouble.’