“Junge! Bring her to a halt by that tree to the left, facing 45 degrees to target.”
It was a scant hope, but von Schroif knew that the oblique position had the effect of presenting more armour to a projectile striking Magda’s frontal armour. He had already calculated that, at their current distance, if the panzer was positioned at 45 degrees relative to the KV-1, they should, in theory, have enough protection to survive a frontal hit.
“I’ll do what I can, sir,” replied Bobby Junge, “...but I’m not sure that the repair is holding!”
The massive turret of the KV-1 continued its turn. There was now no doubt about it. They had been spotted.
“Now, Junge! Schnell! Vorwarts!”
But, instead of a surge of speed, Magda crunched to a grinding halt. The already weakened track had given way under the pressure from the entangled anti-tank gun. There was nothing left but to try the impossible.
“Range 1100,” announced von Schroif.
“962, sir,” countered Michael Knispel.
“Take the average,” commanded von Schroif, as the KV-1’s gun started to turn ever closer towards them.
“By my calculation, that’s also 962, Hauptsturmführer,” replied Knispel.
It was now all or nothing. This was their only chance. Von Schroif either went by the rule book average, or he trusted his gunner.
“Alright... 962!” barked von Schroif. “Fire!”
This was it! At a range of less than 1000 metres, if Knispel missed, the next shot from the KV-1 would blow Magda to smithereens. Knowing that this could be his last moment on earth, even the godless Hans von Schroif said a brief prayer to himself as the 75 mm Kanone Granate rocketed from the short barrel and sped towards the KV-1. The impossibly small target was not the tank itself, but the gun barrel of the 76 mm main gun, which was now revealed in almost perfect profile as the turret of the KV-1 swung slowly towards them. Exactly two and a half seconds later there was a flash and a shower of white hot sparks, then the welcome sound of a hit.
The wait seemed like an eternity as the smoke cleared, but then came the heaven-sent sight of a shattered, smoking barrel on the KV-1, neatly penetrated by the armour-piercing shell deliberately aimed and fired by Knispel the poacher... from exactly 962 metres distance.
The small cheer from Magda’s crew was drowned out by the screaming whistle of armour-piercing, hollow-charge and high-explosive shells as the four remaining panzers opened up on the confused jumble of T-34s. As fire began to spread through the column, the Soviet crews sought desperately to escape. All the while, the survivors of Kampfgruppe von Schroif cold-bloodedly stuck to the task of destroying the remaining Russian tanks, without a hint of mercy.
The column of T-34s was soon turned into a confused mass of fiercely burning scrap metal. A few desperate flaming figures emerged from the smoke as they tried to escape the flames, but the jubilant grenadiers now joined in the fray, machine-gunning the escaping crews and taking no prisoners.
Magda’s exhausted crew climbed out of their crippled tank and sat on the front of the vehicle, where they could better enjoy the spectacle. They lit well-earned cigarettes and watched in amusement as one miraculously unharmed Russian appeared and, raising his hands in surrender, jogged towards the German lines. The solid figure of SS-Sturmscharführer Braun, the senior NCO in the battalion, appeared from his muddy hide with fixed bayonet and gestured the frightened Russian towards him.
As the unsuspecting Russian tank man approached, Braun suddenly took a mighty backswing and, in textbook fashion, thrust his bayonet through the startled victim, twisting once and withdrawing with absolute precision. As the Russian fell to the ground, Braun finished his man off with a second thrust which could have come straight from the training ground.
With their bloodlust at its height, the grenadiers gave a heartfelt and spontaneous cheer. In recognition, SS-Sturmscharführer Braun smiled and bowed deeply, as if he was a performer in a Berlin night club.
Hans von Schroif wasn’t the type of man to celebrate during combat, his concept of soldiering was too professional to permit that, but he couldn’t resist a passing smile when he heard his crew cheer their colleagues on.
The primeval bloodlust would take some time to recede and von Schroif was impressed by the calculating manner in which Braun had driven a lesson home to his boys. SS-Sturmscharführer Braun was no parade-ground martinet, he was hard as steel, unmoved by emotion, and he knew that if his boys learned to act in the same way they may all just get out of this mess.
At the sound of a labouring half-track engine, all eyes turned to the crest of the hill. Another cheer, this time stronger, went up from the survivors of the German battle group as the familiar sight of old man Voss’s half-track crested the hill and began to slither and slide down the steep incline, past the wrecked column of T-34s.
Von Schroif suspected that something special must have occurred to bring old man Voss and his Gefechtsstandfahrzeug this far into the combat zone. He marshalled his frazzled nerves in readiness for orders to be given for the next task.
As the commander’s half-track skidded its way past, the grenadiers, ignoring the accompanying shower of mud, cheered and raised their right arms in salute of their veteran commander. Eventually, the command SPW squelched to a halt by the stricken form of Magda.
Von Schroif dismounted in order to greet his commanding officer.
“By God, you’ve had some sport today!” beamed Voss, his craggy features giving way to a fleeting grin.
“That’s one way to put it, sir... a bit of a rougher sport than I’d have liked. I have to report the loss of two Panzerkampfwagen Mark IVs and ten fine comrades,” replied von Schroif.
“That is unfortunate, but that’s war,” came the stern reply from SS-Sturmbannführer Helmut Voss.
“As you say, sir. I’ll get this track repaired and report as soon as I can.”
“You’ll do no such thing. Leave it to the recovery crew. You and your crew must climb aboard. You have been summoned to Rastenburg, immediately. There are to be no delays. My orders are to have you there within forty-eight hours.”
“Rastenburg...? May I be permitted to ask why, Sturmbannführer?”
“No time to wonder why. You must not delay. These orders come right from the top. They must be scrupulously observed. Time is now of the essence. You are wanted in Rastenburg, and I am to see that you get there. Climb aboard, gentlemen.”
“Jawohl!” barked his crew enthusiastically.
Wohl, Wendorff and Junge needed no second invitation and were aboard the half-track in a flash, happy to leave someone else to wrestle with the job of replacing a muddy track in the stinking smoke which arose from burning oil and charred flesh.
Knispel took slightly longer. He ducked back inside the tank for a few moments before emerging with a cloth-covered article which seemed to magically vanish as soon as he was aboard the half-track.
As von Schroif was driven off past the scene of carnage in the crowded SPW, three things struck him as he gazed in bemusement over the smoking, tank-strewn vista. His first thought was more of an observation, his attention drawn to the distant sight of the Russian commander climbing out of the momentarily forgotten KV-1 and standing on the turret, one foot propped on the barrel. The commander took his time and stood briefly surveying the scene of carnage. He removed his cap and mopped his brow.
Through his Zeiss binoculars, von Schroif noted that he was unusually tall, and white-haired, with heavy black eyebrows above clear blue, cold-blooded eyes which seemed to be looking right back at him in particular. There was something disconcertingly familiar, but von Schroif could not force his tired brain to make the final connection. He was left with the distinct feeling that he had seen this man somewhere before.
Ignoring the bullets now falling around him, the white-haired Russian commander slowly raised his right arm and made as if to fire an imaginary pistol, which seemed to be aimed straight at von Schroif. As he did so, the KV-1 began to s
lowly back into the forest, as if it were on a Sunday drive. In the instant that the machine was enveloped by the trees, von Schroif caught a final glimpse of the commander, settling back into the turret, which he also noticed bore the stencilled outline of a cloven-hoofed figure grasping a pitchfork.
The distant encounter was unsettling in the extreme for von Schroif. “Maybe this is him after all... Could it be that there actually is a white devil? He certainly knows his tank tactics,” thought von Schroif, who was painfully aware that, had Knispel not saved their bacon, it would have been this man leading the victors in a frenzy of cold-blooded bayoneting worthy of SS-Sturmscharführer Braun.
The second thought to cross von Schroif’s mind crystallised into a firm conclusion as they passed the smoking wrecks of Greta and Helga. Von Schroif had final proof that too many good men were dying in inferior tanks, and he resolved to do everything in his power to get better equipment.
The third question was one which, in his exhausted condition, he was not yet able to address, let alone answer... Why was the whole crew being summoned to Rastenburg?
CHAPTER 2
RASTENBURG
“Shall I take us back to the battalion workshops, Comrade Korsak?” asked Dimitri Levinski, driver of the wounded KV-1. To Dimitri, it seemed like a rhetorical question. Devoid of its main armament, there was little prospect of a successful action for the damaged tank. “No, that’s what they’ll expect us to do,” replied Korsak.
“But what else can we do, Comrade?” asked Dimitri Levinski in genuine confusion.
“We’ve still got the machine guns,” intoned Korsak.
“No good against armour though, Comrade Korsak,” mused Levinski.
“Fuck the armour, we’re soon going to find a rich target. Stop the engine.”
The harsh tone said it all. Dimitri Levinski obeyed the command immediately.
Korsak lit a cigarette and soon busied himself with a series of radio conversations.
From the fringe of the forest, Dimitri and his fellow crew members smoked and watched in frustration as the bulk of the Waffen SS grenadiers loaded up into three of the half-tracks and followed the surviving German tanks as they slowly withdrew from the battlefield and climbed the steep hill to a well-earned rest. Other than the smoking hulks of the T-34s and the two Panzer IVs, the only feature of interest was the remaining half-track with its small screen of grenadiers and the forlorn feature of the disabled Panzer IV marked Magda. The grenadiers seemed satisfied that there was no imminent danger and busied themselves making a fire, smoking, and brewing ersatz coffee.
Levinski reported the latest development. Korsak was immediately live to the situation and made a further radio call. Levinski was fascinated to witness a lieutenant appear, as if from nowhere, leading a squad of forty sub-machine gunners. They were followed by the unmistakeable sound of T-34 engines.
“God, this man must have some pull,” thought Dimitri, as half the infantrymen disappeared to positions undercover on the fringe of the forest, while the rest climbed onto the reinforcement tanks that now took up supporting positions under Korsak’s careful guidance.
All was soon quiet and the sound of bird song returned to the forest. The peace seemed to stretch into an eternity as first minutes and then hours passed.
Eventually there came the sound Korsak had been waiting for. Two recovery vehicles slithered over the crest of the hill and, following gingerly in the tracks of the disabled panzer, drew to a halt behind Magda.
This was the moment Korsak had anticipated. On his signal, Dimitri Levinski revved his engine into life and engaged gear. The KV-1 sprang forward and, followed by a wave of cheering infantrymen, charged down the slope. The fresh T-34 tanks sprang from their ambush positions, each wreathed in yelling sub-machine gunners, firing wildly in all directions.
As this overwhelming force hurtled towards them, the unwary grenadiers forming the thin security screen around Magda had little opportunity to resist. The machine gun section did manage to open fire, and a few desyanti were swept from the leading T-34, but the return fire was like a steel whirlwind and the machine gunners fell wounded. The disabled gunners had no prospect of salvation and were mercilessly crushed under the onrushing tracks of the KV-1.
From his position inside the buttoned up KV-1, Dimitri Levinski was surprised, and more than a little disturbed, to hear a yelp of delight from the commander’s position, the sound of a man with a feral bloodlust upon him.
Engaged in the painstaking business of preparing the stricken tank to be towed back to the workshop, the men of the tank recovery section had been taken completely by surprise. There was no chance to grab their small arms and they could do little but raise their arms in surrender. A small group of grenadiers attempted to withdraw to the rollbahn, but a flurry of machine gun bullets and high-explosive shells cut them down within a few yards.
The KV-1 swept up to the stunned survivors of the recovery section detachment, which consisted of the ageing SS-Scharführer Brommann and four youths, the oldest around nineteen. Surrounded by Soviet sub-machine gunners, the terrified youngsters raised their hands in terror as the gaunt white-haired Russian tank commander dismounted. He carried a razor sharp Cossack battle axe in one hand and unsheathed a long, sharp dagger. To the surprise of the Soviet troops, he spoke in perfect German.
“So, you see the destruction you have caused. Look at the crimes which arise from German hands. No one makes a run for it. Drop your pants.”
The men began to lower their trousers. One young man was slightly slower than the others, which seemed to send Korsak into a fury. Without, warning he lashed out at a German soldier with his battle axe, severing his hand from his arm as if it were paper. The young man screamed and instinctively grabbed with his other hand in an attempt to stem the fountain of blood. Korsak merely laughed and slashed at the other wrist, leaving the handless and bleeding man to gaze in stunned horror at the stumps.
The tank recovery man then fell to his knees. This seemed to suit Korsak, who grabbed his head and slowly inserted his dagger into the terrified man’s left eye. Korsak did not allow the dagger to pierce the brain. He wanted his victim to live to suffer the agonies of helpless blindness. Without pity, he surgically inserted his dagger into the man’s right eye. The youth began to scream. In a flash, Korsak swept his dagger across the exposed genitals of the stricken young man and, grabbing the severed organs, stuffed them into the prisoner’s mouth.
“Now you really can talk bollocks.”
This provoked some laughter from the Soviets. Korsak handed the axe to the nearest of them.
“See if you can do better. Send a message home to the fascists.”
This almost proved his undoing as, in this brief moment of distraction, SS-Scharführer Brommann seized his chance and sprang at Korsak, throwing him to the ground and locking his hands around his throat.
“You fucking traitorous bastard!” he screamed at Korsak.
The Scharführer spoke no more as six simultaneous bursts of machine gun fire from six different angles hit him like a lead-dispensing fire hose and ripped him to pieces. The bloodied pulp fell onto the prone body of the White Devil, turning his hair pink and covering his chest in bile and ordure.
Clearly discomfited by his experience, Korsak sprang to his feet.
“Now you’ve seen what to do! Make sure you leave them as a warning of what every bastard can expect!”
With that, he leapt back into the tank, and the KV-1 headed back in the direction of the forest as the sub-machine gunners began to set about their prisoners with medieval ferocity.
SS-Hauptsturmführer Hans von Schroif came suddenly to a state of full awakening. His brain sprang into gear. The nightmarish images of white demons which had filled his sleeping hours instantly departed, but the familiar morning terror instantaneously gripped him in its place.
Had he nodded off? Was Ivan creeping up on the bus? Were he and his unguarded comrades about to be on the receiving end of a Soviet
hand grenade?
No. He was in a real bed, with real sheets.
“Great, that’s a good sign,” he thought to himself. There was no White Devil. Just a dream? “Yes, just a dream.”
So, here he was in a proper bed...
“Am I wounded? No! Good.”
It would appear that there was no pain, and Hans von Schroif had been injured often enough to know what it felt like, so that was another good sign. At last his inner consciousness broke into the reverie and resolved the uncertainty.
“Ach! It’s Rastenburg, you idiot!”
As the reality hit him, von Schroif was able to relax, and he began to feel anxiety being replaced by the flush of excitement.
So, after a week of frantic activity, the day had finally arrived. It was much too early, but this was the day, the day when he finally got to meet with him. Not just to meet him; he had done that so many times over the last twenty years that the familiarity had taken away any sense of awe long ago. The meetings so far only consisted of a perfunctory shake of the hand and a new decoration gratefully received, which brought the added cache of being able to swagger into the beer hall and the occasional unspoken leverage during a difficult field conference.
Hauptsturmführer von Schroif was only human after all. More often than he really should, he managed to turn a conversation to the point where he would be forced to reluctantly admit that... “er, yes, he had met him actually.” Hans knew the mere fact that he had met, shaken hands and exchanged a formal German greeting with the great man was enough. The girls certainly loved it, they always wanted to know everything about him.
“Were his eyes really so blue? Was he tall? Did he have large hands and feet? Do you think he has a sweetheart of his own?”
This time would be different. This would not be a conversation that could be idly repeated in a beer hall to impress a willing fräulein or out-boast a beer-filled comrade. Even so, a momentary flicker of doubt crossed von Schroif’s mind.
Tiger Command! Page 4