Jawohl, Herr Oberleutnant,” Sandmann croaked, his arms swinging in an attempt to move faster but concentrating on his pace failed to spot a water filled hole. He stumbled and flopped onto his belly, screaming in pain.
“Mein Gott, Sandmann…are you joking?” Hans was caught between laughter and disgust. “Get in the plane.”
Sandmann grasped his foot. “My ankle is broken.”
Teeth clenched, mind on fire Hans slammed his flight bag on the gull wing of the Stuka and strode to the wallowing Austrian as a member of the ground crew bent over him. “Feldwebel, are you alright?”
“Nein, my ankle is broken,” whimpered Sandmann.
“Get in the plane Sandmann, we cannot miss this mission.”
Sandmann continued lolling in the mud, pain overwhelming his sensitive personality.
“Do you not speak German?” Hans snapped. “There are men fighting on the front with worse wounds than a sore ankle. I am ordering you to get your ass in the Stuka immediately.”
The ground personnel returned to a nearby Stuka as its engine sputtered to life, Hans’ posture a warning not to help Sandmann. Oswald leaned in close. “Listen to me you stupid Austrian pig, you do not have a broken ankle. Get your ass in the Stuka or I will have you court martialed and shot.”
Sandmann crumpled and lolled onto his back. Disgusted by the Austrian’s antics Hans rose and jogged to Jolanthe. He called to the ground handlers, “Give me some help, we’re loading him up.”
They ground crew caught up to Hans. “Is Feldwebel Sandmann able to fly?” A fueler asked.
Hans climbed from the wing into the cockpit, “Get him in the rear. Either that or we’ll shoot him.” Gritting his teeth, he rushed through the checklist to get in the air with the rest of the Staffel. All eight planes were heading to a tank base south of Smolensk. Though the Stukas’ bombs were of little use to tanks moving in the field, Wheilerd, the 2nd Panzer Division’s Flivo reported dug in T-35 tanks. Static tanks resembled pillboxes as targets and Hans suspected one of the multi turreted thin skinned T-35s would be a perfect target for the 500 kilo bomb slung under Jolanthe’s fuselage.
The flight from the captured Soviet airfield to Smolensk took much of the early morning. As Hans formed up with the other Stukas, he shielded his eyes from the morning sun, the cloudless sky offered no protection. The rear cockpit was silent, Sandmann raised into place by an entire team of ground crew, followed by a gut wrenching scream then nothing, the chunky Austrian lapsing into welcome unconsciousness.
The Staffel remained in formation. Hans’ attention wandered as the droning of the engine and the absence of whining settled his nerves. He imagined Goering pinning a Knight’s Cross on his dress uniform after which he would meet the Fuhrer in a lavish reception. Fame and riches would be bestowed upon him as he attracted an endless stream of blonde frauleins eager to be ravished by a war hero. Hans chuckled, everyone knew of his fondness of blonde frauleins, especially with large breasts.
Oswald shifted in his seat. He had not forgotten his unfortunate bout with itching and burning that plagued him after the Polish campaign. During his suffering he ranged through his various encounters, many clouded by beer and a lack of sleep. He had not allowed his discomfort to stop his flying even as the cockpit inflamed his suffering, but the doctors had cured him, which allowed Hans to fly in the fight to destroy the Bolsheviks.
A spout of black smoke poked up from the horizon. It was Smolensk and Oswald reclaimed his bearings. Jolanthe was to strike any target missed by his comrades. It was considered the least dangerous of duties, much of the resistance taken out by the other planes, and also the one least likely to lead to the Knight’s Cross ceremony and glorious fame. Squinting through the sun, he spotted the military base south of the city. Hans watched the others in his Staffel dive earthward unhindered by anti-aircraft fire, Russian resistance limited to the occasional pistol shot.
Hans struggled to locate an appropriate target, the entire area on fire. He noted fresh excavations at the edge of a small stand of trees and followed the markings right up to the trees. He tingled at the sight of multiple turret tank partly entombed in the earth, the amateur effort at camouflaging left the tank vulnerable.
Oswald pushed Jolanthe’s big nose over into a steep dive and flipped on the wind driven sirens. Hans always employed the sirens, the Polish campaign confirmed they frightened more than the bombs.
With the speed brakes extended, the big Stuka produced a stable dive. Taking a 75 degrees angle did not speed Thunder’s descent, the plane seemed to hang in the air. “Right there Sandmann, I’ve got him,” exclaimed Hans. He released the bomb and braced himself for the automatic pull out device to engage. Thunder’s 500 kilo bomb landed within 10 meters of the unfortunate T-35 with grave consequences. One of the smaller turrets popped off the hull and flew in the air, landing inverted over 25 meters away as the remainder of the T-35 burst into flames.
Hans leveled out and turned to the west. Thunder did not have the smaller wing bombs aboard today. The fuel loading and the 500 kilo bomb precluded additional ordinance.
“Sandmann, you awake?” cried Hans. “I dropped it right on top of the turret.”
Sandmann did not respond.
“Sleeping at your post?” taunted Hans. “Well, the Bolsheviks won’t be using that tank against our Landsers!”
0
Reilly watched the Stuka attack from a small hole, less than a kilometer from the burning T-35. Natasha was curled into a fetal position at the bottom of the depression, her hands over her ears, and the rotten wooden door over their heads.
Another explosion shook the ground, the T-35’s frame destroyed as the Stuka operated with pinpoint precision.
“Jimmy?”
“Yes?”
“Look at me Jimmy.”
Reilly shifted and slid his body to the bottom of their hideaway as he pulled the discarded door over their heads.
“There is no one left. The tanks are gone, we have heard nothing but we cannot stay.”
“Smolensk is destroyed,” Reilly said.
“The tanks,” Natasha murmured. “What are we to do? The Nazi’s will defeat our tanks, they will march on Moscow, and they will destroy the Soviet Union.”
“That is why we should escape.”
“Are we walking to Moscow?”
Reilly grasped her hands. “We hide and surrender when the Germans arrive.”
“That is for you, that is not for me. They are shooting everyone connected with the Party. I have heard it on the radio.”
“You are not a Commissar,” said Reilly. “I will say you are my wife.”
“They will see this.” Natasha pointed to the Red Star on the sleeve of her tunic. “It is the same markings as a Commissar.”
“You can get rid of the jacket.”
Another round of explosions, louder and closer sent them burrowing deeper into the earth. They were waiting for the booms to slow, the Nazis unrelenting in their attacks. Only the heat of the midmorning sun, forced Reilly to push the old door from their heads. He peered over the top of the hole but saw no one.
“At least the T-35s were unmanned.”
Natasha choked. “That is the problem, no one is here. We will be alone when the Germans come.”
“We will survive,” he promised, recalling Bismarck’s epigram that God granted special dispensation to dogs, drunks and Americans.
Natasha shook her head. “I must join my comrades against the Nazis. When we win the war, I will return.” Her eyes were locked on something behind him; the smoldering T-35. “You will not forget?”
Reilly laughed. “I will not forget you. I could be a hundred and I would remember you.”
“Tonight, I will go east. Alone.”
“No.”
“That is the way it must be Jimmy. You remain and when the Germans come, surrender. They will not harm you, they don’t kill Americans, and you can claim to be a tourist.” She smiled at the alien idea, travel within the
Soviet Union difficult, and outside its borders was impossible. “They will be confused but you can convince them.”
Reilly bobbed his head. “When the war ends, I will come find you.”
Natasha’s eyes glinted as she unbuttoned her tunic jacket, “I believe you will. Every day, I will look for you and hope it is the day you will return to me.” Reilly’s eyes widened as she pulled down her trousers, unburdened by watchful eyes even as they stood in an open field. “Hurry before someone comes.”
Reilly reached for her breasts, lowering his mouth to suckle, the nipple hardening. Natasha was motionless, allowing Reilly to work his way around her body. For a moment he worried she was bored but he noticed her eyes were shut tight, her lower lip bled white as she bit it. Emboldened by her pleasure he unbuttoned the front of his trousers.
Natasha opened her eyes and touched him. “I will miss this the most.”
III
May 28, 1940
The smoldering air base served as background to Reilly as he walked along the edge of the woods. He plopped onto a log whistling at the crater created by the Stuka’s 500 kilo bomb. The plane had destroyed the T-35 even after missing its turret.
The war had come to Reilly and he was ill prepared. His civilian clothes offered some protection in a close encounter but from a Stuka cockpit or tank turret he would resemble a combatant. His only weaponry were the 2000 British pounds worth of currency, half of it in rubles, he carried. He would never have that much cash in America because thieves were a real danger but on the battlefield money meant nothing.
With Natasha gone and an eerie silence descending on the once bustling base, Reilly sought solace in memories. Wriggling on the sudden hard stump, he felt for the flask strapped to his belt. Filled with vodka it was his one bow to Soviet society. The morning sun flashed off the crest of his alma mater, Lehigh. For a moment he was transported back to the first time he used it during the annual Lehigh-Lafayette football game on a cold November day in 1922.
Concealing the flask under his coat, Reilly spent the afternoon boisterously routing for his alma mater. The game proved dull, the result exhilarating as Lafayette kicked a field goal in the last 45 seconds to win 3-0. The victory had been sweeter as Lafayette was the defending National Champions.
A change in wind direction drew the smoke from the smoldering T-35 over him, thrusting Reilly back to reality. The fire had burned out, ending the danger of unused ammunition “cooking off” and exploding. Knowing the Soviets he doubted the T-35 contained much ammo, the men at the airbase spending hours on the futile task of digging in an obsolete tank that didn’t even have shells to fire at the enemy. It was comical if it had not been so pathetic.
The wind direction changed which allowed Reilly to examine the T-35. He grimaced at its three turrets, multiple guns and thin armor. The eleven man crew was jammed into the thirty by twelve foot machine. Reilly, the tank designer, was aghast how an engineer could believe the behemoth would survive the battlefield.
He was shaken by the sound of a tank, the stump suddenly seeming vulnerable and Reilly slid into a creek bed, feet nearly submerged. Reilly grasped his passport, a legal document facing down a German panzer ensuring a tricky surrender. As he sank, the water rose until it reached his chest. He snatched a low hanging branch and raised himself to the edge, soaked but safe. He poked his head over the top and jerked at the sight of a KV-1 a mere 40 meters from where he stood. Its engine idling, the heavy tank was partly concealed by a dilapidated barn. Reilly spotted a uniformed man, a political officer rather than soldier who pointed the tank west, then sped away in a staff car. His plans for an easy surrender dashed, Reilly hunkered down into the creek bed as he watched and waited.
0
Schmidt had issued his order. Rudi was to accompany a mixture of PzKpfw IIs and motorized infantry mounted in halftracks pointed toward the Minsk-Moscow highway east of the city. They would be reinforced by Rommel’s 7th Panzer division to sweep away any Soviet resistance.
Rudi could not resist asking, “Are we the main thrust?”
“Sergeant Kleime, I don’t think there is a Schwerpunkt today. Our Luftwaffe friends report there is no organized opposition between us and our objective.”
“So, we just roll forward?”
“Exactly, Kleime. You will be a general before Moscow!” Schmidt laughed.
“Our forces are operating at half strength.”
The lieutenant pursed his lips. “HQ advises that the Socialists are beat.” He did not sound convinced. “If we keep moving our numbers are irrelevant, but army group does not expect the Soviets to organize a defense until we reach the gates of Moscow.” Schmidt removed his hat and swept his arm across his brow.
By mid-day, Rudi was riding unbuttoned in Helga. Every hatch on the panzer was wide open, the heat more dangerous than the nonexistent enemy. Having moved off the roads, which offered their own danger as they drove cross country, Rudi’s platoon managed little more than 10 kilometers per hour, which generated just enough breeze to pull their tunics free from their sweat drenched skin.
The radio crackled. “Kleime, get on the dirt road and head north to a small creek. The II’s will cross the field on our left.”
“Jawohl, Herr Lieutenant.”
“Drive around the south side of the old barn 400 kilometers ahead. Insure it is empty, we do not need a crazed Russian firing from our rear.”
Rudi spoke over the intercom, “Close the hatches.”
“This hatch is stuck, I can’t move it,” said Wolfgang Braun, the gunner.
“Adolf, slow down some, I will get it from the outside.” Rudi scampered around Helga’s rear deck, between the turret and Brauch’s wooden contraption holding four fuel cans and two water cans.
Rudi kicked at a dirt clod jammed between the hinge and turret. He ripped it apart with his knife.
“Close the hatch.” His orders were silenced by a thunderous roar; Rudi landing before Brauch’s shattered creation broke on his back, two cans stunning Rudi. Several minutes later he awakened to the sounds of distant battle. He sniffed, the smell of stagnant water jolted his senses. He moved his arms and his legs, verifying they remained attached, then he rubbed his ears unable to calm the ringing. A burning in his hand had him splash it in the water to soothe the feeling, only to discover it covered in blood.
Rudi crawled to the lip of the ditch, head inching above the edge. He eyed the smoldering Helga some 30 meters away while flames licked at Schmidt’s Pzkpfw III another 50 meters to the west. Further west bodies were spread around a trio of burning Pzkpfw IIs. Rudi used his one good hand to inch toward them.
Eventually the buzzing in Rudi’s ears subsided and he recognized the unmistakable groan of a tank engine. Head popping above the top of the ditch, Rudi saw his Russian nemesis, a massive tank rumbling toward him down the dirt path. He guessed it was twice Helga’s size, cannon resembling something off a naval vessel. He wondered how they had missed such a monster.
Rudi clung to the bottom of the ditch in preparation for the monster to roll over him. A clang rang out and the behemoth stopped, as an explosion sounded above him. Rudi smiled at Lunge’s 50 mm antitank guns. He counted, two then three rounds smacked the tank’s armor, but instead of explosions Rudi heard only the dull sound of metal on metal. The rounds continued as Rudi counted at least ten that found their target, all with the same result.
He shuddered. Their best anti-tank gun had no effect on the monster which lurched toward his ditch. He faced a decision, remain in hiding and hope it rolled over him without effect or rising and stopping the beast. There was no debate, a combination of adrenaline, training and fury had him gripping Brauch’s gas can. He pulled off his tunic and undershirt, ripped the latter into two strips then tied two palm size rocks into undershirt strips. Dousing the “weapons” with gas he waited with his lighter, slumped in the putrid puddle at the bottom of the ditch and waited for the Russian tank to pass.
His body tensed and Rudi allowed the mach
ine to pass over the ditch, its roar threatened his sanity and froze him until it passed. He sprung from his hiding place, legs leaden as he covered the 20 meters to his target. He reached the engine compartment pouring the petrol on the engine grates and the top of the tank’s rear deck before he hopped away and used his lighter on the bundles of gasoline soaked undershirt strips. He grabbed the rock on the bottom of one of the bundles and threw it at the tank. It missed but singed Rudi’s right hand. The tank stopped and the commander’s hatch opened. Rudi lit his final bundle and heaved it towards the tank. The resulting fireball knocked him to the ground.
Rudi scrambled, the tank engulfed in flames, its crew pouring from the hatches as their uniforms burned. Rudi raced to the creek and vaulted over its bank. He landed square in the middle. The cool water soothed his aching body, except for his hand, the skin bubbling from the remains of the gasoline. He was soothing it with the creek water when he spotted an extraordinary sight: a man in civilian clothes watched him from the creek bank.
“Sprichst du Englisch?”
Rudi nodded.
“I am James Reilly an American. I am surrendering.”
“You are a cowboy?”
Reilly hesitated puzzled by the question. “No, I am an engineer, you are the cowboy.”
Rudi squinted, the American sense of humor a puzzle.
“I saw what you did against the KV-1. You deserve a medal.”
Rudi eyed the distant machine and the twitching bodies rolling around on the dry grass. “My crew is dead, I am no hero.” He watched the American, his confident expression prompted a question. “Do the Bolsheviks have many of these machines?”
Reilly shook his head. “I will help you find your unit.”
Rudi waived off Reilly’s offer of help, sliding up the creek’s bank and pulling himself clear. “Have you many Indians in America?”
Reilly grinned, “Of course.”
26
May 28, 1940
At dusk Rudi took Reilly to the wrecked KV-1 where they were loaded onto a halftrack to return to the German rear. Two dozen Czech made Panzerkampfwagen 38(t) s passed them, headed to the front. They were the spoils taken after the Nazis occupied the remainder of Czechoslovakia in 1938. Rudi admired the machines which filled out three panzer divisions.
French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1) Page 36