by Sven Hassel
I dive below the sights and wait for total destruction. The sharp muzzle report stabs at my ears.
The enemy shell passes closely above the turret, but almost before we realise we are still alive, we are thrown across one another in a confusion of arms, legs and bodies.
I hammer my head against the elevation control, and my back against the fine-sighting wheel. A stream of warm blood runs down over my face, blinding me.
Armour plating screams, groans and buckles as Porta attempts to pull the Tiger away from the enemy S.P., which we have rammed head-on at top speed.
Three, men spring from the hatchway in the side of the gun and run towards us with explosive charges in their hands.
A long, rattling burst from Heide’s front MG flings them to the ground. Flaming petrol streams from the capsized gun, and ignites the clothes of the three figures on the ground. A hare springs high in the air and bounds away out into a stream, where it appears to believe it will be safe from the madness of human beings.
‘What the devil, can ’ares swim?’ cries Tiny, in wonder.
‘Seems to think he can, at any rate,’ grins Porta.
‘Turret 3 o’clock, T-34, 1200 yards. Panzer halt! Fire!’ says the Old Alan into the radio.
As Porta stops the tank I tread on the firing pedal. Quite clearly, I see the shell enter the T-34’s turret. The turret becomes a glowing ball of fire, then breaks up with a terrible crash into millions of steel fragments.
‘Hit!’ howls Heide, triumphantly, and enters it on his list.
‘Did you get the number?’ he asks Porta.
‘You must be cracked,’ hisses Porta, irritably, ‘I’m a tank driver, not a bloody book-keeper. My job’s driving you there where you can blow the shit off the crust of the earth and nothing else.’
A tinny scream for help comes over the radio. The Legionnaire’s Tiger has been hit. Deep-red flames leap from the engine and the turret.
Tiny and I climb up and lift the Legionnaire out. His face has been badly knocked about. We hand him up to the Old Man. His turret gunner is beyond aid. The man’s whole stomach has been torn open, entrails dangling down in red and blue loops. The driver, Obergefreiter Hans, is hanging half out of the turret, his body burning and blistering. The blisters crack sharply as they burst.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ shouts the Old Man. ‘If it goes up now, we’ll go with it!’
We are barely 200 yards away, when the Tiger’s ammunition explodes, splintering the vehicle completely. One set of tracks comes flying through the air and crashes into the side of our tank. For a moment we think we have been struck by an enemy shell.
‘Come death, come. . . .’ hums the Legionnaire, softly, blinking his eyes in the bloody face.
‘Shut that piss,’ scolds the Old Man. ‘No need to ask for death. It’ll be there soon enough!’
A T-34/85 comes up over a hill-top in a flying leap and lands with a crash a couple of hundred yards in front of our Tiger.
‘The devil’ cries the Old Man, in amazement, ‘where the hell’d he come from?’
‘God of all the Russias dropped him from heaven’ grins Porta, turning to avoid a smashed P-4. The crew’s charred bodies hang from its hatches.
‘Fire, you fool,’ shouts the Old Man, kicking me in the back. The T-34’s 85 mm gun is beginning to swing round towards us.
‘Take it easy,’ laughs Porta, unworried. ‘Those chaps won’t be able to either hear or think after that trip. Landing like that must’ve sent both their balls an’ their arseholes up into their throats!’
I swing the turret on the hydraulics, but before I have managed to get the gun fine-sighted, a jet of flame comes from the T-34’s long gun-muzzle, and the Tiger is thrown back. A blinding yellow flash lights up the inside of our tank.
‘Jesus’n Mary,’ screams Tiny, in terror, dropping an armour-piercing shell to the floor. ‘The bleeder’s shot us!’
By a miracle the steel-capped shell ricochets, and howls harshly off to one side.
As if working in a fog I take aim at the T-34 and press the firing pedal down. The sounds of the shot and the strike come almost simultaneously. The shell penetrates to the engine, and a yellowy-red spurt of flame goes up.
‘They’re evacuating her’ roars Heide in jubilation. He sprays the crew with bullets, and they fall from the burning wreck.
Tiny is sweating like a galley slave, as he works with the heavy ammunition. The job of loader in a heavy tank can only be compared with that of stoker in the old steam-driven ships.
A T-34/76 crashes through the leafy forest at breakneck speed. Its broad tracks flatten bushes and trees and throw them far behind it.
Even though there are 25 Russian tanks to every one of ours, their superiority in numbers does not make up for their primitive sighting mechanisms and poor-quality radios. These last make communication difficult for them, and communication is an important factor in a tank battle where the situation changes from second to second. But their biggest handicap is their poorly trained crews. This often leads to catastrophically large losses, which even their fanatical courage cannot make up for. Another thing which is surprising is the slowness of Russian reactions in battle situations.
The Tiger’s turret hums round, and the gun is sighted carefully. A fiery tongue many yards long licks from the muzzle and with a muzzle velocity of over 3,600 feet per second the shell howls towards its target. The T-34’s turret is hit. It flies backwards, rolling like a child’s ball, and smashes the tracks of a T-34 behind it. The lower half of a man’s body dangles from the command seat. His dark blue trousers and new yellow boots are covered with blood.
‘I’d like a pair of boots like that,’ says Porta, craning his neck. ‘You could march all over Russia, in boots like that, without getting blisters.’
‘Boots’ coughs Tiny, bringing black slime up from his soot-filled lungs, ‘let’s go out an’ get a breath o’ fresh air then, and bring ’em back with us!’
‘Looting of bodies carries the death penalty,’ Heide says, warningly.
‘ “Organising” a pair of boots from a body ain’t looting,’ protests Porta. ’People don’t march into paradise wearin’ boots. I never heard of an angel in boots, anyway?’
‘Turret, 4 o’clock’ the Old Man breaks into our boot discussion. ‘T-34, 1,700 yards.’
I swing the turret quickly into the required position, and bring the sights to bear on the T-34 which is breaking through a stone wall. I cannot possibly avoid hitting it. I press the firing pedal confidently, but only a click sounds from the gun. No shot!
Everybody turns and looks at Tiny, who is sitting unconcernedly on the floor throwing dice.
‘What in the name of all the devils in hell, are you up to?’ roars the Old Man, beside himself with rage. ‘Why the hell haven’t you loaded the sodding gun, you giant fool?’
‘No more ammo’,’ replies Tiny, casually, throwing a six, to his great pleasure.
‘That’s all I need,’ shouts the Old Man, furiously. ‘Why the devil haven’t you reported it, the way you’re supposed to?’
‘You told us to shut up’ answers Tiny. ‘You said you’d say anythin’ there was to say!’
‘Heavenly Father’ moans the Old Man. ‘What have I done to be burdened with a section like this? Let’s get out of here! Full speed, back!’
Porta makes the Maibach give everything it has in it, and the Tiger crashes into a deep quarry where we can get a little more cover from the murderous Russian tank. Half an hour later we roar into Tortschin, on the outskirts of which the ammunition and petrol unit awaits us.
We are surprised to find Chief Mechanic Wolf there. He is sitting, relaxed, in his general officer’s Kübel, wearing his tailor-made uniform and the highly-polished riding boots made by Roselli in Rome.
‘You look as if you’re nearly dead already,’ he laughs, catching sight of Porta. ‘I hope the neighbours clawed your backside about a bit for you!’
‘Piss up your own arse
,’ suggests Porta to him, sourly. ‘You sound like a bloke with termites chewing on his balls! You talk more crap’n a whole college of priests!’
‘Easy now, lad,’ says Wolf, fawningly. ‘I’ve got a plan. I’ve found out where some of the Kremlin fellers’ve stashed away a load of Commie gold. No more’n three thousand kilometres from here. I’ll organise it. All you do is go out an’ pick it up!’
‘Is there money in it?’ asks Porta, immediately showing interest.
‘More’n you’ve ever dreamed of,’ grins Wolf. ‘Get this stupid tank-battle over sharpish, an’ come back without too many scratches so’s we can get it fixed up quick an’ take everybody’s arses for ’em!’
Barcelona gets a whole new tank. Albert is already in the driver’s seat, with a heavy bandage swathing his black head.
‘This man’s army ain’t goin’ to be satisfied ’fore we’re all blown to bits’n pieces,’ he complains, racing the tank’s engine with unnecessary violence.
The petrol men rush to fill us up with the 700 litres we can take. Two 500 litre drums are fastened firmly over the engine housing as a reserve.
‘Wish the bloody stuff’d catch on fire,’ says Porta, audibly, ‘then we might have a chance of some kip and a bite of something good to eat!’
‘What did you say, you there, Obergefreiter?’ shouts Werkmeister Müller, red in the face. He is known all through the division as ‘Nazi Müller’.
‘What I said?’ asks Porta, pointing stupidly at himself. ‘What I said?’
‘Nazi Müller’ goes dark blue in the face, and begins to emit the screams which NCO’s always give out when they can find nothing better to do.
‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Beg to say, Sir! You, Sir, are Werkmeister Müller, Sir, the Werkmeister responsible for the petrol supply unit,’ cackles Porta, clicking his heels together. ‘Beg to report, Sir, Werkmeister Müller, Sir, there was once a railway crossing keeper named Heinz Schröder. He watched over the German National Railway’s railway crossing, between Paderborn and Bielefeld. A cruel fate caused him to fall out of a goods waggon one day. It was, unfortunately, just prior to his being appointed Chief Railway Crossing Keeper with the right to wear a red lanyard at bis shoulder. This promotion was not effected, since, when he woke up after the fall, he could not remember who he was. He kept running around asking everybody:
‘Do you know me? Do you know who I am?’
Porta breaks off his stream of words, and examines Werkmeister Müller’s purpling face, which is swelling up as if about to explode at any moment.
‘Beg to enquire, Sir, has the Werkmeister, himself, ever fallen off a goods waggon?’
‘I’ve had enough,’ fizzes ‘Nazi Müller‘, stamping his foot angrily on the panzer’s deck. ‘I warn you! Don’t try to make game of me!’
‘Beg to report, Sir, no intention of making game of any kind with the Werkmeister, Sir, but it reminds me, Sir, of Herr Weinhuber, who was employed as a lifesaver by the German National Corps of Life-savers, Sir. Herr Weinhuber also believed that everybody he met was trying to make game of him. It was when they promoted him to Chief Lifesaver at Zell-am-See that things began to go really wrong. The final breakdown came one Sunday morning in July when he was on his way to Zell-am-See, as usual, on the bicycle provided for him by the Life-saving Corps, Sir. It was raining terribly hard that Sunday. Nobody even thought of bathing outdoors, so that National Chief Lifesaver Weinhuber, Sir, he could just as well have stayed at home. Even the stupidest of men ought to be able to understand that a lifesaver won’t have anything to do on the beach when nobody is out bathing.’
‘Nazi Müller’ lifts his hands towards the heavens in the attitude of a man praying. He opens and closes his mouth as if trying to give out a scream of protest, but only a few strange gurgling sounds, like water running out of a bath, become audible.
‘The trouble was really in the service regulations for lifesavers,’ Porta continues, smiling up at ‘Nazi Müller’, who is standing, swaying, up on the tank. ‘These regulations lay down that the service is to be commenced at 08,00 hours., and there is no mention of weather conditions, such as rain or snow, causing this to be altered so that lifesavers can stay home. In any other country in the world our lifesaver would not have gone out that day. Not in Germany, however, Sir. Beg to say, Sir, I recall, now, an interesting matter in which a set of German Service Regulations led to an unusual happening. Down in the cellars, Sir, at the War Ministry, Sir, they print regulations on a printing press supplied by the company. Graphik A.G., of Heidelberg. There was a compositor there, Sir, named Ludwig Kaltblut. This Herr Kaltblut got a completely crazy idea, one day. . . .’
‘I refuse to listen to any more of this,’ howls ‘Nazi Müller’, desperately. He falls backwards off the vehicle, and hits the ground with a thump.
‘Always seems to happen,’ sighs Porta, shaking his head, despairingly, ‘as soon as I start giving them a detailed explanation about anything, so that they can understand it properly, something always seems to go wrong with them. . . .’
Porta is interrupted by the ammunition squad, which comes to our aid as usual. We stack the long-bodied shells in the ammunition lockers.
I get the worst job. Opening the boxes, removing the protective rubber and taking off the anti-rust caps. It is hard work. Each box holds three shells, and they are heavy. The rest of the crew shouts at me continually to get a move on. We want to get finished before the Russian Jabos come diving out of the clouds laying phosphorous eggs on our heads.
We finish up by cleaning the gun. A dirty gun can cause accidents, and a premature is no fun at all.
Porta comes back to us, puffing, with a case of sausage and a large round cheese, which he has purloined from the supplies people.
‘5. Company,’ the CO’s voice comes over the radio. ‘Right wheel. Arrowhead formation. Over the bridge. Shoot at anything which moves. The regiment has to cross that bridge before they blow it!’
At top speed No. 5. Company, consisting of sixteen Tiger tanks, goes rattling down towards the river. The hellish clangour of the tracks drowns out the noise of the infantry.
Russian soldiers spring from foxholes, and go running through and over ruins, in flight from the onrushing giants. Many of them do not succeed in escaping, and are crushed under the tracks.
Three 5. Company Tigers are hit and set on fire. In an amazingly short space of time the several kilometre deep battle area is covered with the burning wreckage of German armour. Krupp Sports, Panzer-3’s and the legendary Panzer-4, as well as Panther and Tiger tanks. But by far the majority of the wreckage is Russian. BT-7’s, KW-2’s, T-34’s, together with countless American Christie’s and British Matilda’s.
To avoid a KW-2, Porta turns his vehicle and crashes straight through a house, showering the turret with domestic fittings and furniture. We jolt to a stop in the middle of the house, and peer, cautiously, through the observation slits.
A white grand piano stands in one corner of the large room. A Russian officer hangs, lifelessly, across the keys. Two others sprawl across chairs, their faces covered with blood.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ mutters the Old Man, whispering as if he were afraid someone might be listening.
‘This German bloody motor’s given up,’ curses Porta. ‘Russian bloody dust flyin’ all over the place’s probably blocked the filter. A couple of you’d better get on the handle. The self-starter can’t manage it.’
‘Up you, mate,’ shouts Tiny. ‘I’m not gettin’ out an’ swingin’ no startin’ ‘andle!’
‘You and Sven,’ orders the Old Man, ‘and no more arseing about. That’s an order!’
Violently protesting we creep out through the hatchways. Our hands are soon torn and bleeding as we work at the retaining clips which keep the starting handle in place. At first we can hardly force it to turn. Then Tiny is gripped by a seizure of mad rage. He jumps into the air and comes down on the handle with all his weight. I just manage to t
hrow myself into cover behind one of the tracks when a long burst from a machine-pistol goes off just above our heads. I whirl and catch sight of a Russian, fumbling with the magazine of a Kalash-nikov. Like lightning I pull a personnel grenade from my pocket and throw it at him. It explodes with a sharp crack, tearing his entire chest open.
‘What the bleedin’ ’ell are you about?’ shouts Tiny, white with rage, and kicking out at me. ‘You can’t go throwin explosives about like that in other folks ‘ouses! You coulda bleedin’ well killed me, you war-mad sod, you!’
The engine fires. A flame a yard long shoots from the exhaust-pipes, and the engine starts up with a thunderous roar. Plaster from the ceiling rains down on us.
The starting handle spins round, sending Tiny arcing through the air. With a crash he falls on the piano, smashing it to pieces with a jangling as loud as a whole orchestra at full blast.
‘I’ve ’ad enough!’ he roars, rising up from the wreckage of the piano, festooned with strings. ‘You’re tryin’ to kill me,’ he yells. He is up on the Tiger in one giant leap, P-38 in his hand ready to kill Porta in return for the air-trip on to the piano.
‘Drop it,’ snarls the Old Man, pressing his Mpi against the big man’s forehead.
Tiny’s eyes follow the barrel of the Mpi slowly. It is pressed against the bridge of his nose. His eyes cross in idiotic fashion.
With a rueful grin he replaces his pistol in its holster, and crawls complainingly inside the vehicle. A hand-grenade hits him in the back and rolls down inside the waggon.
‘Bleedin’ arse’oles!’ he roars, fearfully, picking up the grenade. He gazes at it in confusion and discovers that the safety-pin is still in place. ‘Jesus,’ he yells, tears out the pin and hurls the grenade back where it came from.
A thunderous explosion rings through the house, and two bodies are thrown up towards the ceiling.
‘Bleedin’ ’ell,’ mumbles Tiny, white in the face with terror. ‘The devil nearly ’ad us that time, all right. Think if that Commie shit ’ad pulled the pin!’
‘Well, then the inside of this tank’d have looked like a mediaeval painting of hell. Blood and bodies all over the place!’ sighs Porta, taking a deep breath.