by David Bishop
Ralf could not understand why these Soviet vehicles, supposedly so superior in their firepower, armour protection and mobility, were not stemming the German advance. He and his crew had discussed this question frequently in recent days, after finding themselves without a battle to fight. The attack on Kiev had been postponed on orders from Berlin, despite the 13th Panzer Division being within sight of the city. Instead the armoured forces had been sent south, giving Ralf's crew plenty of time to speculate about the superior Soviet armour. So far, Russian battle tactics had been inexplicable and frequently inept, with few indications of communication or co-ordination between individual tanks. Bizarrely, they often did not have any radio aerials. Some had even been seen communicating with flag signals, to the amazement of German crews.
Ralf finally caught sight of a T-34 during manoeuvres to encircle the Russian 6th and 12th Armies at Uman, south of Kiev. He immediately recognised the tank's sloping armour and brutish appearance, but was surprised to see the T-34 travelling as part of a Panzer column. As it rumbled nearer, Ralf could see the Soviet-built vehicle had been repainted in German colours. He used his binoculars to study the insignia on the new arrival. The T-34 bore the black and white cross seen on all Panzers, but it also had another emblem clearly visible on its turret: a bat with wings unfurled, clasping a swastika in its talons. Ralf had seen that emblem before, on Gorgo's uniform. The commander called his Panzer to a halt, urging the crew to get a clear look at the passing T-34.
"Is that what I think it is?" Gunther asked.
"Look at the size of that gun," Willy said admiringly. "The damage I could do with that."
Helmut was the last to emerge, having been busy on the radio. "Apparently half a dozen T-34s were captured at Dubno-Brody. The Reds abandoned them after running out of fuel. The Rumanians claimed the tanks for their own, had them refitted and repainted. Erfurth's radio-operator says Gorgo has been put in charge, forming his own little Panzerverbande."
"Just what we need," Martin muttered darkly. "Battle tanks full of blood-"
"Quiet!" Ralf snarled. "Remember our agreement. Nobody mentions what we saw in that village or what we suspect. It's for our own safety."
"But-" the youngest crewman protested.
"But nothing," Gunther interjected. "You heard what the commander said. If you can't follow orders, you don't belong in this crew. Got it?"
Martin nodded, still scowling as a Kette of Stukas flew over. The planes dropped into a dive-bombing attack beyond the next ridge.
"Seems the Russians are not that far away," Ralf said. "Let's roll."
The Panzer surged forward, falling into formation behind the converted T-34 as it raced after the Ju 87s. The Rumanians might have stolen the Soviet's own tanks to use against them, but Ralf still believed his crew was the equal of any within one hundred kilometres.
The battle was fast and furious. Two more Rumanian T-34s joined their compatriots to act as a crude spearhead while Ralf led a wedge of Panzers round to attack the enemy position from one side and Erfurth drove in from the opposite direction. The Stukas had disabled half a dozen Russian tanks and armoured vehicles, but several more remained mobile. Ralf studied the Soviet positions and strength from the vision ports in his cupola.
"Seems our Rumanian allies have an advantage over the Reds," he noted. "The captured Soviet tanks are better than anything the Russians have at their disposal." An enemy artillery shell landed a few metres behind the Panzer, showering the German vehicle with soil and shrapnel. "That was close."
"Too close," Willy agreed. "Time we gave them a taste of our German steel." He traversed the turret sideways and took aim at the cluster of Russian anti-tank guns. "Ready to fire."
"Fire!" Ralf roared and was rewarded by the sight of enemy casualties screaming and dying. "And again!" Another blast from the main gun and another direct hit on the Russian positions. "Good shooting. Gunther, take us closer."
"Already rolling in," the driver responded, his hands deftly manipulating the Panzer's controls to swivel the tank to its right.
Ralf kept his gaze fixed on the enemy positions, watching as all three T-34s barrelled towards the Russians. "Looks like the Rumanians are taking the direct approach." The first T-34 drove directly over the top of the first Soviet artillery crew, crushing the anti-tank gun beneath its tracks. "God in heaven," Ralf gasped. "That would be suicidal in any other vehicle." Another T-34 thundered into the Soviet positions, smashing through the remains of a burning tank. The third tank reared up as it drove over another artillery gun, squashing the crew beneath as the tank slammed down atop them.
Ralf's gaze slid sideways to the inferior Russian tanks under attack. The main gun of one was dropping to zero elevation, so its long barrel was parallel to the ground. The first T-34 was almost upon them, but still the crew did not fire. "Scheisse, why are they waiting?" Ralf wondered.
"They're either brave or stupid," Gunther replied. He was also watching the drama unfold in front of them. "The Russians must know what it takes to stop one of their own T-34s."
"It'll be on top of them any second," Ralf said.
Finally, when the barrel of the T-34 was almost touching that of the anti-tank gun, the Russian tank fired. At point blank range, they could hardly miss such a large target, but the effects were no less spectacular as a result. The shell slammed into the narrow gap between the T-34's turret and hull. The turret exploded into the air, somersaulting across the sky, accompanied by a blizzard of metal and black smoke. The Rumanian tank died screaming, but as it did another cry shrieked throughout the air, an inhuman wailing that chilled the Panzer crew to the bone. When the clouds of smoke cleared, the unearthly cry was suddenly cut short with a final, fatal shriek of protest.
In a bitter irony, the victorious Russians had mere moments to enjoy their triumph. While the turret of the T-34 was flying into the sky, the mighty hull of the tank was still rolling forwards. It crushed the weaker vehicle, armour crumpling like brittle paper beneath the T-34's weight and momentum.
Ralf realised his own tank had stopped to watch the mismatch, turning itself into a sitting target. He slapped his hand on Willy's shoulders, jolting the gunner back to the present. "Fire!" Within moments the Panzer's main gun was joining the battle ahead of them, firing shell after shell at the rapidly diminishing Russian force. "Gunther, get us moving, before the Reds see we've stopped."
The Panzer lurched forward, accelerating into the melee. Blood stained the once peaceful valley's grass red and the stench of spent cordite tainted every mouthful of air. Ralf pressed his eyes against the nearest vision port and called the position of their next target. The skirmish was merely beginning.
The battle was both bloody and brutal, with fewer than a dozen Russians being taken prisoner once the last shots were fired. The Rumanians had driven their converted T-34s with suicidal fervour, plunging through the Soviet ranks before turning round for another attack, using the fearsome tanks as naval tacticians once used the cannon of tall ships against each other. What the Rumanian drivers lacked in skill they more than made up for with death-defying enthusiasm.
By dusk it was all over, and Ralf was discussing the battle's conduct with Erfurth. The Feldwebel was preparing a report for division HQ and felt obliged to seek Ralf's input, despite rarely mentioning the name Vollmer in despatches. Ralf did not care, since he did not share Erfurth's lust for glory. The sooner this war was over, the sooner he could go home and forget it. God knows he would not miss the killing or the quiet, gnawing terror that grew with each successive battle. Having made his contribution, Ralf gratefully strolled back to where his tank was parked for the night. Martin and Helmut were loading fresh supplies of fuel and ammunition aboard, while Willy was arguing with Panzerwarte engineers about firing problems he had been having lately, blaming the ubiquitous red dust for insinuating itself into the main gun's mechanism.
Ralf took care not to be dragged into this perpetual disagreement and approached the crew's radio operator instead.
"Helmut, where's Gunther?"
"Eyeballing the T-34's wreckage. He went for a closer look with Hoepner. They went about ten minutes ago, leaving us to do everything, as usual. If you find Gunther, tell him to get his lazy arse back here, and fast!"
Sure enough, Ralf located the ruddy-faced driver and his counterpart from Erfurth's crew standing beside the broken remains of the shattered T-34. The two drivers were debating the merits of the tank over their own vehicles. Gunther had clambered on top of the hull and was rapping his knuckles against its shell. "The armour is not much thicker than anything in the Panzer, but the extreme angle must double its effective thickness. Our standard anti-tank gun would be as useful as a pea-shooter against these plates."
Hoepner was pointing inside the gaping hole where the turret should have been. "How many crew does it take?"
Gunther counted the shredded seats in the wrecked interior. "Four, by the looks of what's left. Driver, radio operator, loader and gunner. The gunner must also be the tank's commander." He searched the surrounding battlefield but the missing turret was nowhere in sight. "I didn't notice any cupola or vision ports. I wonder how they see out?"
"We use a periscopic sight," a thickly accented voice replied. Sergeant Gorgo appeared from the twilight, his uniform now similar to those worn by Ralf and his Panzer crew, but with the bat and swastika emblem prominently displayed. "It is too dangerous to ride with our heads exposed as you prefer, because the turret hatch pivots forward, not backward. We would have to sit on the turret roof to see where we are going."
Besides, your kind doesn't like being caught in sunlight, Ralf thought.
Gorgo glared at Gunther standing on the T-34's hull. "I must ask you to climb down. My countrymen died inside that tank and I wish to recover their personal belongings. I know you are interested to see inside the T-34, but please show my fallen brothers some respect, yes?"
Gunther took another glance inside the burnt and blistered hull and then jumped down to stand beside Ralf on the grass. The two men walked away, leaving Hoepner behind, still studying the T-34's exterior.
Once they were out of earshot, Ralf nudged his crewman in the ribs. "What did you see inside? What did the Rumanian bodies look like?"
Gunther frowned. "That was the strangest thing - there weren't any bodies. I guess they could have been sucked out when the turret blew off, but..."
"But what?"
Gunther stopped, looking back at the tank's carcass silhouetted in the moonlight. "There was a pile of ashes in each crew member's position, almost as if someone had individually cremated them where they sat."
"Spontaneous human combustion?" Ralf asked disbelievingly.
"Combustion? Yes. Spontaneous? Maybe. Human - I don't think so." The driver grabbed his commander by the arm and pulled him further away. "Do you remember the moments after the turret was blown off?"
"Of course."
"After the clouds of smoke from the T-34 had cleared away I heard a strange noise, a noise unlike anything I've ever heard before."
Ralf nodded. "Like the death shriek of an animal."
Gunther grimaced. "I haven't been able to get that sound out of my mind. I keep replaying those moments, over and over, in my head. The smoke clears and sunlight floods the exposed interior of the T-34. That's when the screaming started. It wasn't the explosion or the turret being blown off that made the Rumanians cry out. It was being exposed to direct sunlight."
"You think they burned alive where they sat?"
Gunther nodded. "And so do you, Ralf. I can see it in your eyes. We both know what these creatures are, what they can do. Gorgo couldn't care less about recovering the personal effects of his fallen comrades. He wants to remove any evidence that proves his Transylvanian countrymen are vamp-"
Ralf clamped a hand over his driver's mouth. "Don't say that word," he said. "Not here, not at night and certainly not out loud. We had an agreement. As long as the Rumanians are fighting on our side, we're safe from them."
Gunther wrenched Ralf's hand from his face. "Maybe, but how long do you think that's going to last? Gorgo and his kind are arming themselves, learning from us, from our methods. Why? What happens when the war is over? Why would his kind even want to fight alongside us? What do they have to gain?"
"You think somebody somewhere has made a deal with the Rumanians," Ralf said quietly. "They help us defeat the Bolsheviks now, and in return..."
"Who knows? But I don't want to be among the poor bastards who find out. We need to think about defending ourselves against them, if the worst should come to the worst. If the time comes, we need to be ready."
Chapter Ten
JULY 29TH, 1941
Hans wasn't sure how long it had been since Sergeant Witte had taken half the unit away down a narrow gully that curved out of sight to the north. Red Army activity was supposed to be light in the area, but intelligence reports on enemy numbers was frequently wrong. Hans and the others maintained their position in a small copse of trees close to the end of the gully.
Hans was starting to believe that much he had been told about the Soviets was less than accurate. All through basic training it was drilled into them, over and over again: the Bolsheviks were inferior fighters, godless sub-humans without the will for a long or tenacious war. The mighty Blitzkrieg of Panzers and Stukas would sweep all before it and conquer the Red Army, crushing the bulk of the Russian forces within a month of crossing the border. Then the Landser would move in, mopping up any lingering pockets of resistance that might remain.
Reality had proven a different matter. The infantry of both sides was bearing the brunt of the fighting. The Red Army was tenacious in defence, always ready to counter-attack and willing to continue fighting long past the point where soldiers of other armies would have surrendered. Communism might have rejected religious beliefs, but its soldiers fought with a passion equal to any zealot's.
They were not inferior and weak-willed, Hans thought ruefully, watching grey clouds drift across the moon overhead. Its light filtered through the trees, dappling the Germans in tones of blue and slate, casting a deathlike pallor on their nervous faces.
A scream disturbed the men. Distant shots rang out, answered by the characteristic rat-tat-tat of a German machine gun. More shots and more screams followed. Then, only silence, cold and foreboding. The cluster of men beneath the trees shifted nervously, uncertain how to respond.
"God, I need a cigarette," Ulrich muttered, hands scrabbling for his tin of tobacco.
"No naked flames, no lit cigarettes," Hans said. "We don't announce our presence here."
"Who died and put you in charge?" Ulrich replied.
"No one, hopefully." Hans fell silent, listening to the night. In the distance a familiar sound was becoming audible, drawing closer. "Footsteps. That must be Witte and the others coming back."
"I'll signal them that we're here," Siegfried volunteered, about to move out from the copse. Hans pulled him back into the shadows.
"Wait," Hans whispered. "That doesn't sound like the sergeant. He makes much less noise when he moves."
Siegfried tilted his head to one side and listened. "If that's not the sergeant, then who?"
"Scheisse, it's the Reds," Hans realised. "Down! Get down!"
The infantrymen dropped to one knee, fingers nervously gripping the triggers of their weapons, eyes searching their surroundings for movement. A few seconds later, a single figure emerged from the end of the gully, creeping forwards into the open. The pale moonlight made it difficult to identify the colour of his uniform, but the style was obviously Russian.
Ulrich raised his rifle and took aim, but Hans intervened again. "He won't be alone. Let him think he's safe and the rest will follow. Then we attack."
Ulrich nodded. Sure enough, the lone Soviet soon made a discrete gesture and a dozen of his comrades emerged from the gully. Several Russians began moving toward the copse.
"If they'd seen us, they would already be shooting," Hans whispered. "Hold your
ground, let them come to us." He could feel Ulrich trembling alongside him, the private's hands rattling the rifle in his grasp. Hans reached across and stilled the movement, keeping his own gaze fixed on the nearest Russian. Soon the Soviets were within spitting distance, the moon casting harsh shadows on their pallid faces. Hans was about to open fire when the enemy troops changed direction, moving slowly and deliberately towards the German camp in the west. Hans waited until all of them were facing away from the copse, then bellowed a single word to his comrades: "Fire!"
The Landser killed half the Soviets with the first volley, wounding many of the others. The Russians spun in the air, their bodies jerking and twitching. Those who were not killed instantly threw themselves to the ground and returned fire, spraying the copse with ammunition. Hans took a round in his right thigh, the leg folding beneath him. Others were not so fortunate, with Ulrich's brother Siegfried losing half his jaw and the back of his skull.
Seeing his twin slaughtered, Ulrich screamed in fury and charged the Russians. He shot two soldiers dead, then bludgeoned a third with the butt of his rifle, reducing the Soviet's face to a viscous red pulp. The remaining Russians fled into the darkness, put to flight by his raging onslaught. Other members of Ulrich's unit had to drag him away from the corpse to stop him beating the lifeless body any further. Even then, his thirst for vengeance was not sated.
"I'm going after the rest," he announced, reloading his rifle as blood dripped from his crimson-spattered features. "Who's coming with me?"