Thor's Anvil (Kirov Series Book 26)

by John Schettler

  All along the river, the thunder of artillery resounded from the gorges and cliffs. Many of the shore batteries positioned from the Rynok Ferry north had been turned about to rain fire on the crucial sector, and from across the river, Volkov’s guns answered by opening a preparatory barrage on the heavy concrete bunkers that defended the west end of the bridge.

  East of the bridge, an unseen buildup of troops was assembling, the men of Volkov’s 12th Orenburg Guards Division. And just a little south, at the ferry sites along the river at Volkovskiy, another crack unit was quietly using the darkness to load weapons and supplies aboard their assault barges. Such a cross river attack had never been possible while the defenders of Volgograd could stand their watch unbothered by other foes. Now it was mustering with a real chance of success. Ivan Volkov had been receiving regular reports from the front, and when he learned of the German thrust towards the bridge, he immediately ordered well laid plans to be pulled out of the General’s briefcases and put into motion. He was ready to send this heavily reinforced division over that bridge, and to land those Marines on the river banks to the south, where that balka ran to meet the river a kilometer north of Spartanovka.

  On the morning of the 29th, the troops crouched in the low fog that hung over the river, the restless vapor of their own breath seeming to feed and build the mist. Their adrenaline was up, for before them lay the massive steel girders and bed of that bridge, fully two kilometers wide. With silent hand movements from their officers, the first of the rifle squads began to rush forward onto the approached to the span. They would pass their own heavy defensive bunkers, MG posts and concrete guard towers, their movement rustling the fog like wind. The farther they went, the farther from their own defensive shore they would be, and now the sappers took the lead, the men trundling forward with long metal tubes that looked like Bangalore torpedoes.

  Conceived in the mind of the British Captain McClintock in 1912, the long tubes housed explosives that could be slid forward as sections of fresh pipe were added from the rear. It allowed a sapper to crouch low, and push the explosive charges toward the obstacle to be attacked and cleared. Volkov’s men called these brave sappers the “Chimney Sweeps,” clearing out the soot of the enemy defense, and they were to be the fire and smoke at the other end of that chimney, as the full division was poised to push on over that bridge.

  It had been thoroughly checked the previous night to see that no enemy demolition charges had been mounted. They were reasonably assured that the span was cleared out to at least the mid-point, but no one was entirely certain whether the western end was wired. They had studied the big supports with fine telescopes for years, looking for any sign of a charge being mounted that might be big enough to destroy the bridge. None was ever seen. In the event of a demolition from smaller, more hastily mounted explosives, it was not really thought that the massive girders could be brought down. That would take careful placement, and considerable engineering. Yet the road bed itself might be severely damaged or destroyed by smaller charges, and so behind the sappers came men pushing metal plating on small carts if the attackers needed to lay down new bedding.

  As this was going on, the Orenburg Marines were already on their barges, grateful for the heavy mist and fog over the river. The thick airs would even dampen the growl of the barge engines, and they hoped to get very close to the western shore before their bold attack was actually discovered. Nothing like this had been attempted since well before the war, and the last time it had ended in disaster for the attackers. So the men were justifiably edgy. The barges slipped away from the concrete quays, and the Marines were soon taking what seemed like the longest ride of their lives. South of the bridge, the river widened considerably.

  As the barges reached the midpoint of the river, the fog was at its thickest and they remained unseen. Now the men could hear the mutter of battle growing ever louder, for the Germans were achingly close to the bridge, with the armored cars of the Recon Battalion in De Führer Regiment no more than a thousand meters from the western bunker defenses.

  The fighting was raging all along the Surchaya Balka south of Rynok, where the Saratov Sapper Regiment had come down the river road from the north to attack the enemy penetration towards the bridge. On the other side of that reaching thrust, the tanks of the 137th Brigade and now the full weight of that regiment of the 13th Guards was being thrown at the Germans. The Russians were desperately trying to pull that hand from the throat of the city, for that was their last overland life line. Even the excess factory workers had been mustered into a brigade and they were marching to the scene from the tractor worker’s settlement.

  The entire sector near the western end of the bridge was erupting with artillery fire from every quarter. Powerful rounds were landing, some exploding high up in the metal framework, the black smoke leaving an angry weal in the grey sky, the shrapnel raining down on the sappers and riflemen on the bridge. The span was only wide enough to permit a reinforced company to be at the point of attack at any given time, and so the operation was a little like feeding a sturdy wood beam into a saw mill.

  Volkov’s engineers and guardsmen pushed those Bangalore torpedoes forward under machinegun fire and heavy guns in the fortified bunkers. When they were mowed down, the metal torpedoes clattering to the steel bedding of the bridge, others would bravely come forward to take their place. But it was no place for the soft flesh of a man to be that hour. The western end of that bridge was a place where only steel and concrete could survive the terrible rain of fire being put in from every side. Some rounds striking the bunkers sent big shattered fragments up into the sky, stunning and deafening the men inside. Yet they shook themselves to life and fought on, the blood running from their busted eardrums.

  It was then that the noses of the first assault barges slipped into a clear spot on the river, and a watchful sentry near Mechetka Landing in Spartanovka rushed to give warning. Minutes later the sound of a siren cranked up and began to wail on the cold morning air, like the wheezing breath of the defenders as two hands pressed that choking attack from both sides of the river.

  3rd Battalion of the 13th Guards had been moving along the shoreline towards the bridge, rushing to stop those German armored cars, the men bringing the AT rifles to the front of the column. Then the sirens alerted them to the danger, and officers looked to see the first assault barges coming up onto the sandy river banks, about 1000 meters south of the bridge. There was a small cove there, but it was a dangerous spot, overlooked by a fortified position that those Marines had undoubtedly come to attack. The armored cars would have to wait. The Soviets could not allow an enemy landing behind them.

  The sharp report of gunfire from the south caught Lieutenant Anton Kuzmich Dragan’s attention, and he turned to see that two Soviet river boat flotillas were emerging from the fork of the river as it flowed around the long fish shaped body of Denezhny Island. They were obviously firing at other assault barges another two kilometers to the south, so these landings were bigger than they seemed. His men were already rushing to set up their machineguns and mortars, and the riflemen fell prone on a low ridge. They would have a decided advantage on the attackers from that higher elevation.

  The Marines landed, rushing onto a sward of scrubby undergrowth as the Soviet machineguns opened fire. Many were cut down in the water as they leapt into the shallows from the barges. Lieutenant Dragan was crouching low, directing the fire, even as his own men came under artillery barrage from the east bank. Now a second enemy battalion that had landed unopposed to the south was working its way towards his flank, and behind him, the German Panzergrenadiers had finally broken through behind those armored cars. They were already firing at the rear of the concrete fortifications guarding the bridge.

  The first waves from those barges were completely stopped, but then the Germans played a trump card. Dragan heard the growl of heavy engines, thinking some of the armored cars must have broken through to his position, but when he looked, he saw instead a dangerous
looking hunk of armor approaching from the rear, then another, then two more.

  They were heavy assault guns the Germans called the Sturmpanzer IV. In the months ahead, those that fought against them would call them the Brummbär, or Grouch, and it was an ornery beast indeed. Only a very few of these had been made, but here were 24 of them, collected into a heavy assault battalion and played out in this critical moment to bring devastating support fire to the German attack. A squat grey beast, its squarish main gun housing had 100mm frontal armor, through which a short barreled 150mm howitzer protruded like a sawed off heavy shotgun. When they fired at close quarters, the roar of that gun was ear splitting, and the Brummbärs began blasting away at Dragan’s battalion, driving his men from that ridge. Just when it seemed that the Guardsmen would drive the Orenburg Marines into the river, the sudden appearance of this heavy armor turned the tide of the entire battle.

  Das Reich, heavily reinforced by the SS assault engineers and all those Sturmpanzers, had now driven a hard steel spike right through the seam between the Volga and Samara Rifles. The former was holed up in Rynok, its lines extending back through the Big Mushroom to the Aqueduct, the latter was holding ground west of Spartanovka. That regiment of the 13th Guards was down near the river, locked in a desperate battle with enemy Marines, tanks, infantry and armored cars. Meanwhile, Volkov’s 12th Guards kept hurling one battalion after another at the central fortification that defended the bridge, and now the Brummbärs were slamming 150mm rounds into the concrete walls and blasting at the heavy iron doors to the rear. The sound of each heavy round striking them rang out like a great bell, tolling out some inevitable doom.

  The attack from the eastern bridge span was gruesome, as the leading troops were mowed down by machinegun fire. Then, special engineers came forward bearing steel shields, crouching low as they pressed forward like a phalanx of ancient warriors, the long metal tubes bearing explosives jutting from the squad sections like pikes. Inside the bunkers, light 45mm cannon took the place of machineguns, blasting the assault teams time and again. Yet there was a full division behind the tip of that spear, and Volkov’s troops kept coming.

  One section with a flamethrower team immolated a gun port, allowing an engineer squad to get close enough to get its demolition charge placed. The resulting roar of the explosion shook the bridge, knocking men off their feet, and three fell to their doom into the river below. The 45mm gun was silenced, but the solid structure remained intact. As the next rifle squad rushed forward, a submachine gun challenged them and the entire play began to repeat itself, with the dead mounting higher. At one point, an assault squad had to literally crawl forward over the bodies of their fallen comrades, one man dragging a dead soldier on his back for cover.

  On the night of October 29th, that sturdy redoubt finally fell. Its heavy walls were battered and blackened by smoke and fire, its great metal doors bruised and dented, though they still barred the way. There was simply no one inside still alive, and so one by one, the riflemen of the 12th Orenburg Guard climbed through the gun portals to claim that battered tomb. There were still Soviet troops in the two adjoining redoubts to the north and south, and the fighting was far from over, but the bridge over the Volga was now technically in enemy hands, the black eagle banner scored by that dramatic red V was draped over the far end of a battered steel girder.

  While this drama had played itself out, Hörnlein’s Grossdeutschland Division had pushed out from the cover of that balka, and in heavy fighting that lasted all through the 27th and 28th, they managed to get 2500 meters south into the outskirts of the central city. There, the enemy had rushed in every available reserve, their 56th Tank Brigade, men of the 97th Special Workers Brigade, the whole of 39th Guards Regiment from the Provisional Division, and a battalion from the 154th Naval Marines.

  The grenadiers had fought their way right to the edge of the 1st of May Plaza, and beyond it were two shattered smoke towers of the Nail Factory, jutting like broken teeth against the pallid sky. Just beyond that, was Hörnlein’s objective, The Gorki Theater, overlooking the river. But then, strangely, word came to suspend operations. Similar orders went out to the Brandenburgers.

  There was some confusion as to what was happening until Steiner found Hörnlein in the shattered Hospital that had been fought over so bitterly near those cemeteries. “A change of plans,” he said. “Manstein has Surovinko, and they are pushing for Kalach even now. We are to form a strong assault force there to break out and restore communications. No more 200 kilometer truck rides to get in supply.”

  “I see,” said Hörnlein. “Well, do you want that damn theater or not?”

  “At the moment, all operations except those involving Das Reich at the Volga Bridge are suspended. In fact, we may be pulling out.”

  Chapter 27

  All Hallows Eve

  “What? We are leaving the city to them? The Führer will not be pleased, to say the least.”

  “We will not give up the fight here, but Manstein tells me he has spoken directly with Volkov requesting stronger support, and Volkov then made a personal appeal to Hitler, with a pledge that he will commit all of his 5th Army, and new forces coming up from Khazakstan.”

  “Volkov had ten years to try and take this city, and he could never do so.”

  “Yet now he will have our help,” said Steiner. “At the moment, he is moving up more troops from Beketova in the south to take over positions presently held by the Wiking Division. It galls me to do so, leaving the city to Volkov like this, but orders are orders, and so I am sending 5th SS west to Nizhne Chirskaya, and I will want the whole of your division to go to Kalach. Under the circumstances, the salient in which you now find yourself is somewhat hazardous. You should make arrangements to pull out and then establish contact with the Brandenburgers.”

  “Give back all the ground we’ve fought for these last two days?”

  “It can’t be helped. Manstein doesn’t want the mobile divisions here.” There was a harried look in Steiner’s eyes now. “I told him I had promised this city to the Führer before Christmas, and we have ample time to finish the job, but he is set on pulling the entire Korps out. He wants the infantry here in our place.”

  Hörnlein nodded, and with a smile. “No offense, General Steiner, but thank god someone is using his head. We should never have crossed the Don without adequate infantry support.”

  “Well enough,” said Steiner. “So now we will correct the situation. You are going to Kalach; the Wikings further south where the engineers have scouted good crossing points, and back to the railroad bridge. The Russians pulled out of that sector last night.”

  “Then they know what we are planning,” said Hörnlein, “or at least they are smart enough to see the threat. General, they have fought very well here, better than any of us ever expected. The operations they mounted west of the Don were quite a surprise, and in more than one way. Let us not forget what happened last winter. It is only going to get colder here, the snows deeper, the roads more and more impassable.”

  “All the more reason to take Volgograd for winter quarters.”

  Again Hörnlein smiled. “There won’t be much of a city left if we do take it,” he said. “These last five kilometers took me nearly three days of very hard fighting. Casualties have been heavy; supplies are never adequate. This place will soon be hell frozen over. We will do much better west of the Don, believe me.”

  That difficult but correct decision was now going to change the entire complexion of the battle, at least for the SS. Manstein had the wisdom to see what had gone wrong, and the backbone to take appropriate action. Enlisting the direct support of Ivan Volkov himself was much akin to having Mussolini make a direct appeal to Hitler, but when mated with Manstein’s strongest possible endorsement, Hitler let go of his initial resistance to the idea. Anything that remotely looked like a withdrawal was an anathema to the Führer, but even Halder and all the Generals at OKW had sided with Manstein, stating that the situation west of the Don had
to be resolved before the city could be reduced. And if Volkov could help provide the much needed infantry for that fight, all the better.

  On the morning of All Hallows Eve, the combined forces of Orenburg and Germany crossed the Don near Tormosin and Nizhne Chirskaya to establish a new front south of the main road between Kalach and Surovinko, and the Wiking Division would become the centerpiece of that thrust. Bridging engineers worked tirelessly, and that evening, the recon battalion of 5th SS was over the river and moving north, the infantry of the Nordland Regiment lining up to begin moving over the newly constructed pontoons.

  At Kalach, the 129th Infantry moved up its reserve regiment and began the attack there under a thunderous artillery barrage from hordes of guns Steiner had assembled. They were able to punch a hole in the lines of the Soviet 84th Rifle Division, which had a chilling effect on 24th Army headquarters, particularly when the long column of the Grossdeutschland Division was spotted on the road heading west away from the city. Confusion reigned, as it does in any major tectonic shift of the battle fronts like this. Rokossovsky was soon on the telephone to Zhukov.

  “The situation is suddenly very fluid again,” he said. “Chuikov tells me that many of the German divisions that have been pushing into the suburbs of Volgograd have now suspended operations and they are pulling out.”

  “Don’t sound so happy about that,” said Zhukov. “I’ve already had reports indicating they are crossing the Don to the south of Kalach. 5th Tank Army was virtually destroyed at Surovinko. Only 1st Guard Tank remains viable.”