The men grumbled and milling about listlessly. One of them, a drunk corporal, flopped onto the ground. The lieutenant squinted at the sprawled figure, took a single stop and raised his pistol to end the corporal’s squirming. He turned to the other men, who had sobered by the sight of their blood drenched comrade. “Do not turn back or you will face certain death. You only option is to attack the Fascists. If you do not have a rifle, follow a man that does. If he falls, pick up his rifle.”
The lieutenant clenched his fist and swung it in the air. “The fascists are weak and poorly supplied. When you reach them, claw at their faces and slit their throats. They have attacked the Motherland!” He stopped to look at Igor, then issued the last words some of the men would ever hear. “Spread out, move fast and absolutely do not turn back.”
0
Across the field, Sasha saw the river. His legs were frozen; he did not want to leave the woods. The other members of the penal battalion began cursing. A salvo from the Soviet 152mm artillery roared overhead, as the men ducked and the shells exploded short of the river. Another salvo whistled overhead and landed in the river. The artillery stopped, their shell supply spent.
“Fast to the bridge,” came the command from a sergeant. The lieutenant had wisely not accompanied the penal battalion to the edge of the woods. The 300 men stumbled from the woods; some fell while others quickly lost direction in their drunken state. The sergeant ordered them to link arms and they silently picked their way over the uneven terrain and the final 200 meters to the bridge.
The few armed men held out their rifles, unable to fire for a lack of bullets. Their pace hastened after twenty-five meters as no one from the German side fired a shot. Sasha’s confidence grew, grasping Igor arm as if he were a child. “The fascists are gone, we have frightened them from the river,” Sasha cried. He grasped Igor’s arm as if he was a small child.
Igor flinched as Sasha’s fingers dug into his flesh. “They are waiting until we are closer,” he said. “When the shooting starts, do not turn back. You heard what the lieutenant said, the NKVD will slaughter us.”
Armed only with their wits and in Sasha’s case liquid bravery, they followed the men of the 23rd Rifle Division, who were fortunate enough to bear rifles. Having crossed half the distance to the bridge, their confidence grew as the German’s held their fire. Sasha was joyful, certain the enemy had fled at the sight of the determined men, with their arms locked and marching toward them, seemingly invulnerable.
0
The first salvo by the Russian artillery made Rudi jump. The motorized infantry began shouting, warning of the attack and moments later Helga’s Maybach engine sprung into life.
“Infantry advancing towards the bridge,” shouted an infantry sergeant.
“Hold fire until they are clear of the woods.” ordered his lieutenant. “Get light on them.”
Rudi looked away from the arc of the star shell to preserve his night vision. Only when the field was lit would he look; he saw the Russians, arms linked as they stumbled in the direction of the tanks without cover or artillery support.
“They are insane! They are marching arm in arm!” Rudi called to Wagner, Helga’s gunner. “They don’t even have rifles.” His words were drowned out by a crescendo of fire from the German side as every weapon at their disposal unleashed its fury.
The Russian ranks began to falter; they stumbled as hooked arms dragged down those fortunate enough not be hit by the first fusillade. Another star shell replaced the first after it faded, the light revealed some in the Russian ranks retreating to their own lines.
0
Sasha did not hear the first shots but saw their results. The men in front of them, empty rifles useless, fell to the ground, bodies twisted, a scalp torn from a skull, uniforms wet with blood; the spatter smacked Sasha’s face, his eyes burned as he tasted salt. Suddenly the second line became the first line and Igor tackled Sasha.
“Do not move,” Igor hissed. They had come to rest in a slight depression, protected from the bullets by the bodies of the dead riflemen. Sasha’s ears rang with the sound of the German firing, the earth trembling when shells hit around them, the intensity far beyond what they had experienced when hiding near the casement and fortified line.
“Should we get their rifles?” Sasha asked.
“Don’t move.” Igor glanced back at the woods, specks of light marking the machine gun fire. It was not aimed at the Germans but rather the lines of faltering men who faced the decision of continuing forward against the distant German guns or retreat toward the closer Russian guns. Igor clenched his fist at the sight of Russians being gunned down by the NKVD. The lieutenant had not issued an idle threat and Igor plunged his head into the ground, unable to watch as the bullets whistle over their heads.
Sasha choked as the remains of the brown bread and vodka rushed from his stomach. Tears wet his cheeks and Igor put his arm around him and pressed the younger man toward the earth, “Don’t move.”
0
Rudi squinted at the muzzle flashes from the woods. They appeared to be shooting at them; then his throat closed as he realized they were firing at their own men. Some of the retreating Russians fell from bullets at their back and front, they faced too many enemies to survive. It was a massacre, the Russians killed more of their comrades than the Germans could.
“The Bolsheviks are killing their own men,” said Rudi called to Wagner. “Hit the woods with a few 37mm rounds.”
“Ja, the men in the field are not a threat,” replied Wagner. He aimed at the flashes from the woods and sent a round towards the nearest.
Rudi rubbed his eyes as his brain struggled to understand the scene before him. A group of twenty-five Russians rose and started toward the bridge. “Fire the MG 34 in front of them, force them to take cover,” Rudi directed.
Wagner aimed; his shots kicked clouds of dirt in front of the troops who did not waver in their charge. The firing from the woods propelled them forward in their suicidal charge. The field was plunged into darkness as the last star shell faded. Another one burst overhead to reveal the Russians were within 30 meters of the bridge. “They give us no choice Wagner, finish them.”
Before Wagner could rake the exposed Russians, the motorized infantry struck cleared the battlefield. The mortar squad lobbed 81mm shells into the woods and silenced the Russian machine guns. Only then did the order come from the German side to cease firing.
0
The star shells flickered and died, the battlefield dark, the desperate cries of the wounded going unanswered as they died alone and afraid. Sasha shook Igor.
“It is over, Igor,” Sasha whispered. “We are alive.”
Igor’s groan joined that of the others spread across the field. “Sasha, you must stay here until tomorrow night. The NKVD is gone but the Germans will poke around the dead, they will take from the dead and shoot the living. You must not let them know you are alive.”
Sasha pulled away his hand, skin wet and sticky, “What is this?”
“I have been shot.”
Sasha groped for the wound. His fingers drew a groan from his companion. “Tell me what to do, tell me how to stop the bleeding.”
Igor choked. “Do not let them know you are alive.”
“We will not,” Sasha said. “You will be here with me.”
Igor choked again and spattered blood onto Sasha’s face as it flooded his lungs. “Do not let them know you are alive.”
Sasha clenched at his companion “You can’t leave me, we will get to the Kohlzok.”
Igor coughed and his voice trailed into the distance. Sasha held tight to his friend. Igor choked, his body gripped by a shudder. He gasped, coughed then nothing.
Sasha gripped him but Igor was limp, body still. Tears followed by determination then a solemn vow. He, Alexander “Sasha” Grotnov, would survive the Nazis and the NKVD. He would make them pay for the death of his friend.
II
May 20, 1940
“Helga is l
eaking oil,” complained her driver Adolf Brauch. “We need an engine overhaul.”
“Impossible, Corporal, we don’t have the time,” Rudi said. “We will be on the move soon, patch the problem.”
Brauch shook his head. “Our losses, the fighting, we are worn down and there isn’t a panzer that doesn’t need maintenance.” He patted Helga. “I cannot say how long I can keep her going.”
“Not for us to decide, Adolf. I am sure the other Adolf has a master plan we are executing. Surely you have read Mein Kampf?” Rudi was poking Adolf, Helga’s driver was not known for his book learning.
“I skimmed it,” lied Brauch. “It cannot help us when we move east. We need maintenance and reinforcements.”
Rudi glanced about the tattered village of Shklov, a pathetic setting on the railroad between Mogilev and Orsha in eastern Belorussia. The buildings lacked paint, revealing split wood that provided little cover from the weather. Those who remained in Shklov depressed him, their clothing drab and dirty. The numbers were declining; Rudi noticed the slight men with long black beards who scurried down the street just ahead of the SS troopers who smacked them with their guns if they slowed.
Shklov would have been a mere dot on the map if not for the bridge across the Dnieper, which was their next largest obstacle. Lieutenant Groesbeck’s men had mounted a daring nighttime crossing and taken it. Though Rudi found the lieutenant’s fanaticism unpleasant he had to admit Groesbeck was brave and willing to take risks, a necessity for command. The bridge was the jumping off point for their next prize, the encirclement of Smolensk.
Brauch noticed Rudi’s interest in the structure. “Pretty wide, eh? It’s good we don’t have to fight our way across.”
“Jawohl, Corporal, Jawohl,” muttered Rudi. He sat and watched the water flow, as people like to do on a warm late spring day. The deep blue sky transported him back to the old American West of Karl May. The books had been one of Rudi’s youthful enjoyments, his imagination sparked by the image of Apache Chief Winnetou riding his horse Wind and brandishing the Silver Gun, his famous double barreled rifle. Rudi would be Old Shatterhand atop his stead Lightning, befriending Winnetou and becoming Blood Brothers. Rudi held out his hands as if gripping the reins of the horse, eyeing the land beyond the Dnieper and wondering if he would ever get to ride again.
Rudi’s daydream was interrupted by a chorus of rifle fire. At first he feared the white explorers in his mind were shooting at his Apache friends. He shook his head from side to side and came back to the reality of Shklov. A small boat with half its stern under water floated slowly down the middle of the Dnieper. Rudi noticed movement, a Russian soldier crouching in its bow. Those around Rudi laughed while taking turns firing their rifles at the boat. Five minutes later the game was over as the bullets opened up holes and the boat slipped under the waters of the Dnieper.
Rudi returned to the Old West day dream though with a discouraged air. The slaughter of the hapless Russians seemed akin to the slaughtering of American Indians armed with mere arrows. While the Russians were savages, the border crossing displayed their backward lives, he wondered if the men of the Wehrmacht were not responsible for treating the Russians at least as well as livestock.
Lieutenant Schmidt walked up to Helga, paying little attention to the diversion of the target practice on the boat. His uniform, normally immaculate, had crusts of dust attached to his tunic though he could find no grime on his pants. Rudi smiled, having suffered the same problems. As a panzer commander he also rode “unbuttoned,” with half of his body protruding above the turret.
“Sergeant Kleime is your Panzer operational?”
“It’s leaking oil but Corporal Brauch will have it ready. What are our orders?”
“The Dnieper River turns east at Orsha. We will push on its south side through the Gorki area, then north to Smolensk. By the time we get to the city, a fresh Panzer division should be coming up to lead the assault.”
“What Panzer division could possibly be fresh?” Rudi asked. “Rommel’s 7th? With the Czech PzKpfw 38(t) tanks?”
Schmidt shrugged. “I do not ask questions. I know air reconnaissance has identified an armored formation with a complement of heavy tanks just south of Smolensk.”
“The multiple turret things?” Rudi asked. He recalled seeing pictures of bizarre looking Russian tanks with numerous turrets.
“Probably. No one has encountered anything other than light tanks, BT’s and T-28s, and those have not been a problem for us, eh?”
“They may be fast and their guns are bigger than our 37 mm but their armor is thin,” Rudi said, his confidence born of experience. “The Russian tank units lack training and leadership, their tanks are irrelevant.”
“They also lack radios,” Schmidt said. While waiting for orders, some of Schmidt’s men wandered into a couple of disabled Soviet tanks and learned each tank commander was on his own as he could not receive orders from his commander. “The word on the Socialist heavy tanks is that they have multiple turrets, are slow and have thin armor. They cannot match our mobile tactics, they are an obstacle not a threat.”
“Those BT tanks can remove their treads and travel on their wheels like an armored car,” Rudi said. “They can move quite quickly on the road.”
“Ja, but that helps them little in the countryside. You have seen Soviet roads, their tires are no match for our treads.” He patted Helga appreciatively. “Berlin will be looking examining them, there are numerous wrecked BTs to reveal all the Soviets’ secrets.”
Rudi tried to shift the subject toward their future orders. “We could fight better Lieutenant if we need had more rest and time to fix things.”
Schmidt followed his eyes, settling on a now shirtless Brauch. The corporal was lugging tools to the engine compartment of the worn PzKpfw III. “You may be correct Rudi, but no promises, I and the division expect your men to be prepared for orders.”
III
May 20, 1940
Stumbling along the familiar rutted path Sasha reached his kolkhoz, south of Barysaw. Morning was breaking when a sound sent him scrambling beneath a demolished wagon. He slid free only when the morning sun was full. As the heat descended from above he emerged, following an odor of burning wood. It did take him long to find its source, the smoldering huts that had made up his zveno, each one reduced to smoldering heaps.
Sasha saw only wreckage; the occasional bird offering the only sign of life but he neither saw nor heard any humans. He was reduced to picking through clothing and the charred remains of the family’s state issued furniture, all strewn around the dirt among wrecked farm equipment.
Sasha kicked through the ashes until his foot struck metal. It was a shovel; he retrieved it and held its broken handle like a spear, prepared to smash the head of any soldier he came upon, regardless of uniform. He picked through the discarded remains of his life. With splinters biting into his hands, the approach to his home rekindled childhood memories. They were obliterated by a stifling odor and the buzzing of flies which circled a body, sliced in half, the bent shoulders and back familiar even as its face was covered.
Sasha dropped the shovel, his body clammy, legs wobbling, ears ringing. He tumbled to his knees, his fingers ripped at the hard dirt and tossed it in the air; some of it fluttered into his eyes and gagged him as it plunged into his throat. Choking and sobbing, he heard a low moan. He remembered it well, the same sound his father made when Sasha’s grandfather had died. The moan sounded again then became a yell, Sasha turned his face skyward, dirt scrabbling through his fingers as he cursed God and those who had killed the man who taught him all he knew.
Time passed without notice, Sasha choked and coughed, face smeared with dirt, a fine grit coated his teeth. He ached, his stomach clenched and heart pounded as pain, fury and revenge clogged his mind. A final scream sounded, echoing through the trees, frightening the birds as if they recognized his primal fury. Emotions spent, Sasha rose to his feet, grasped his shovel and stumbled around the sad colle
ction of burned out huts.
Dead bodies covered the ground. Several meters distant he found his mother, struck down as she fled, a bullet hole in her forehead. His younger brother, Timor, lay pinned to a bed of hay, pitchfork through his throat. Sasha moved to him, hand snatching at the pitchfork as if to remove it. He wriggled the instrument and his brother’s head lopped to the side. Sasha froze, fearful any movement would sever Timor’s head from his body. Unable to help his brother, the pain wrenched from him as he mourned his father but he knew he could not remain.
His feet took him down the rutted road in the direction of Marina’s zveno. He barely noticed the rows of bodies in a ditch all bearing familiar faces from his kolkhoz. The ditch, though, was new, likely dug by the very peasants who now occupied it.
Sasha threw his shovel to the ground to hasten his pace. Exhaustion slowed him and he stumbled, eyes blotted by tears; he covered the five kilometers to Marina’s in 30 minutes. He discovered the same scene: dead bodies scattered where the peasants had resisted or in an orderly line where they complied with the invaders’ commands. Stumbling along he glanced at the faces in search of Marina. He did not see her and continued deeper into the village. It was only when he reached the water tank adjacent to the equipment shed did that he see the familiar shape.
“Marina?” Sasha stared at the lifeless body, clothes mere shreds. Blood had pooled and darkened on the ground. Sasha knelt, touching her face, bloated, swollen, nearly unrecognizable. Her long brown hair was matted, her body twisted and broken. Marina did not move. Sasha slid onto the ground, staring at the barren sugar beet fields, fear replacing excitement at arriving home. He slumped to the earth and fell asleep.
The afternoon sun had reached its zenith, and dipped below the trees when Sasha awoke, the noise from a low flying aircraft caused him to open his eyes. The plane circled the area. It was dark green, almost black, small, bat like, black crosses outlined in white on the wings. Sasha watched, without seeing, his mind blank. The plane turned in the direction of Sasha’s zveno and lumbered away.
French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1) Page 32