“Just keep on lifting,” prayed Hans von Schroif. “If the ramp collapsed now, God knows how long this would take...”
Looking down the line, Hans could see the next four Tigers, all with their engines running, all slowly approaching their own ramps. Then back to Bobby. Hans was on the wagon now, guiding, he could feel the wagon tilting under him, the weight on one side pulling it down. It was all up to the driver now, all driver skill. Open her up, up, open her up more, and then... crash! The front of the tank came down on the wagon and Bobby engineered a turn on a pfennig to bring her round and into place!
Hans then coupled up the car and went to oversee the rest of the operation. So far, so good, the next tank on safely, then the third, then the fourth. Just the final Tiger to go, followed by the towing vehicle.
Hans was then distracted by a series of explosions at the engineering works, huge explosions which sent flame and twisted metal high into the night sky. Hans couldn’t help thinking of the poor souls – was Kurt safe? – trapped inside the inferno. “These damn British! What kind of people were they? The Tommy soldiers had a good reputation, but these airmen?”
Hans felt hatred swell up inside of him. He was running pictures through his mind of what he would do if he ever got his hands on one of the terrorists when he heard a familiar jolt next to him. The train was starting to move! His first reaction was to shout, but there was no one to hear him. The engine was too far away.
Then he shot his gaze back to the last Tiger, just rearing up, when a backward jolt on the uncoupled wagon nudged it back – certainly not far – but enough to disturb the recently-built ramp, which collapsed just as the front of the tank was about to drive onto the wagon.
“Look out!” von Schroif screamed at one of the tank’s crew who was standing next to the ramp, but his voice was lost and too late.
The tank fell, its massive weight pressing down on the long wagon, which flipped up and turned in the air, landing on a screaming crew member. There was nothing that could be done. He shouted and waved frantically to the rest of the crews to get on the slowly moving train before it pulled away.
Hans looked out over the grim scene – explosions and fires, the wail of sirens, the screams of the wounded and dying, and the sickening sight of the flailing arms of a man caught under a rail wagon from the waist down, the last frantic automatic movements of a man who, if there was any mercy in this world, would hopefully be dead already.
Von Schroif had to look away, not because of any squeamishness on his part, God knows he had seen worse, but because of a deep malaise that sickened his soul. He had killed many men, been responsible for the deaths of many men, but they were all sworn foes, enemies... It was always different when it was one of your own.
He hadn’t personally killed the poor bastard, but it was his responsibility. He had given the order to side-load the tanks and, as it turned out, that was premature. No more bombs had landed near the train. Yes, the driver had pulled out without warning, but that could have been rectified.
Hans knew where he was headed – a dark slough of despair where no light ever shone. There might be justifications and excuses that the mind could throw up to help alleviate this sickness, but honest despair overruled them all. He had killed that tanker just as surely as if he’d hurled down the wagon with his own bare hands... and this knowledge cut him to his very soul...
“Should I take the credit?” asked Walter Lehmann of himself. “What a stroke of luck! One Tiger left behind and, probably more importantly, no towing vehicle! Yes, why not? It would make his negotiating position with the Soviets even stronger. How many more Swiss francs did he need? Well, there were certain necessities a man could not do without, and there were contingencies and plans for the future which needed certain amounts of capital.”
Then he thought again. The objective was simple: to capture a Tiger. The plans he had the art teacher steal from the factory would help, but would not have the same value as one of the beasts falling into the hands of Soviet engineers. The more tanks that got to the front, the more chance of capturing one intact. So perhaps he had better word the transmission carefully. How about...
“Guests arrive Mga. 0800 hrs 29th. One guest has food poisoning. Will miss meal.”
The journey to Mga, the railhead to the east of Leningrad, was not ideal, certainly not cooped up in a tank on a train in the middle of a blazing hot August, but essential camaraderie would see them through, as it always had. Otto Wohl would cut hair and tell jokes. Bobby Junge, as was the custom with drivers, would be allowed to sleep as much as possible. Michael Knispel would regale the rest of the crew with useful and informative titbits, like the differences between German and Soviet rail gauges. Karl, as usual, was quiet, listening in on any radio traffic. Who knows what went through his mind. Perhaps he was listening to opera?
“This is it.” Hans von Schroif thought to himself. “This was not why men went to war, but how men survived war.” In that moment, von Schroif realised that, amidst all the privation, the pain and the suffering, it wasn’t the cause or the ideal, and certainly not the glory, which made it bearable. It was the unit, the platoon, the crew. These other men in this tank, these friends. When all was said and done, they were the reason why he would see this through to the end.
It was nearing dusk. With Wohl, Junge and Knispel asleep, von Schroif was about to shut his eyes when Wendorff motioned that he wanted to talk, in private. Hans von Schroif agreed. Screened by the gathering darkness, the two men ventured out of the turret and walked to the front of the tank. This, of course, went against all the rules for rail travel, but Hans von Schroif knew there was little chance of the two men being seen.
“SS-Hauptsturmführer, there was an incident back in Rostov, the day we faced the KV-1. I did not mention it at the time, as I felt I needed more information before divulging it to you,” said Karl as Hans listened intently.
“Continue, SS-Panzeroberschütze,” replied Hans.
“As we were travelling along the road, just before the mine and the Russian attack, I received a signal, not one which I could readily understand or decode. It seemed to me to be significant, so I memorised it and then wrote it down. However, even after considerable research, revisiting my old study papers and the like, its meaning or even origin eluded me. Then, when we were in Paderborn, I took the opportunity to make a request to my old professor, who was kind enough to enlighten me in my search.”
“And...?” asked von Schroif.
“PNKTI.EH.SFTVOCE, transmitted by key. I thought I was dealing with something sophisticated, perhaps in Italian or one of the Swiss dialects, even one of the Russian languages, but I overcomplicated things. It’s actually a very simple code, and the message is in German. It’s not one of ours. It’s simply the alphabet reversed, with roman numerals for numbers. Once decoded, it gives an attack target. Kmpgr.vS.hugelXV. It means Kampfgruppe von Schroif, Hill 15. Our unit designation and the objective... If you recall, Hill 15 was the objective.”
Hans von Schroif looked out over the Polish countryside as they sped towards the Russian border, quite unable to take in the ramifications of what he had just heard.
“There is more, sir...”
“Go on.”
“After we did the brief inspection before leaving Berlin, I picked up a message in the exact same code language. The signal was fainter, but it’s essence just as disturbing. It detailed the exact time of our arrival at Mga. I think someone may be expecting us.”
Commander Kirill Meretskov studied the man who stood before him. So this was the infamous Dimitri Korsak, the man also known as the Steppe Fox, or to the Nazis as “Der Weisse Teufel”. Meretskov knew of his reputation, and could have used him in the Sinyavino Offensive, but Moscow had decreed otherwise. There was no intimation as to what Moscow required of this man, only that he, Kirill Meretskov, Commander of the Volkhov front and the victor of Tikhvin, was to do everything in his power to help this tank commander, this Dimitri Korsak.
&nb
sp; This rankled him. Was he not trusted by Moscow? This had echoes of his arrest by the NKVD in 1941, but he quickly suppressed those memories. Stalin, after all, had spared him. But why the secrecy? This thing had Beria’s fingerprints all over it.
Dimitri Korsak could sense Meretskov’s unease, which in turn gave him confidence in the importance of the task he had been assigned.
“So my requests will be met in full?” asked Korsak, the suspicion showing through in his voice.
“Impudent bastard,” thought Meretskov, but he knew now never to interfere with his superiors. “Anything you require will be made available to you.”
At which Korsak saluted and left. “Now,” he thought, remembering Rostov, “it is time for unfinished business...”
The station at Mga was a throng of troops, trains and equipment. The detraining had passed without incident, apart from the obvious excited interest of everyone who had cast eyes on the new Tigers. When they had pulled back the tarpaulins it had been like the unveiling of a great work of art! This was no art gallery though, because the noise of not-so-distant artillery exchanges indicated that either they were not far from the front, or they had just arrived in the middle of a major offensive. In fact, both were true.
On the previous day, the Volkhov Front offensive had started, and Ivan had punched a 3 km hole in the German line. Catching the Germans by surprise, the Russian 8th Army had enjoyed initial success. Army Group North had been preparing for its own offensive, the Nordlicht Offensive, aimed at breaking Leningrad’s spirit once and for all. Army Group North, however, had rallied, and the newly-arrived 170th Infantry Division, many of whom were still at Mga, had helped shore up positions, along with the redeployment of the 5th Mountain and 28th Light Infantry.
For his part, Otto Wohl was itching to get into a fight, and kept asking every five minutes if they had their orders yet. Hans von Schroif was a bit more circumspect. He was to rendezvous with Major List from the army. He was pleased that someone else would take the lead, with responsibility for the Kampfgruppe, and leave him to command his tanks. The sheer scale of the troop movements around the railhead was daunting. “How many trains were arriving and leaving?”
Hans noticed a tall figure striding toward him, a figure who bore all the hallmarks of a man who knew his mission.
“Good morning! Hauptsturmführer von Schroif, I presume. Welcome to Army Group North,” said the tall officer, giving the regular army salute. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am, not only to meet you, but to get acquainted with those magnificent new machines of yours.”
Instinctively, von Schroif clicked his heels and gave the German greeting. “Heil Hitler! SS-Hauptsturmführer von Schroif, reporting for duty, sir!”
“Yes, yes, that’s all very good,” continued the officer. “Sorry, I forgot to introduce myself... Major List.”
“Despite his obvious lack of enthusiasm for the National Socialist cause, List seems an agreeable fellow,” thought von Schroif. The kind of man one could have confidence in. He would not have been selected otherwise. The feeling of confidence deepened as the new orders were quickly outlined by List.
They seemed straightforward. Join Kampfgruppe List at Mga, then drive north to the assembly and supply point. From there, the four Tigers were to take part in an attack on the southern flank of the Soviet advance. With simultaneous attacks from the north and centre, it was hoped to nip the Soviet attack in the bud. The Führer expected hourly updates on their progress and was informally reported to be “on thorns” to hear how the Tigers performed in their first combat.
“So, all we have to do is single-handedly conquer Leningrad, and then on Tuesday we can turn our attention to Moscow, Herr Hauptsturmführer.” Von Schroif made no immediate reply, and List continued. “Then, finally, on Friday, we head south to Georgia and decapitate the monster in his lair.”
List spoke with a tone not so much of irony, but from the viewpoint of a battle-hardened veteran who had long given up notions of the strategically grandiose. In this, he shared an opinion with many who, since Barbarossa, over a year ago, had come to the opinion that, however brightly it had started, this war was going to go the course and be fought river by river, hill by hill, and inch by bloody inch.
“I’m sorry to correct you, Herr Major, but we do not use the term Herr in the Waffen SS.”
“I stand corrected, Herr Haupsturmführer, but let’s leave the politics aside and fight the Russians first, eh?”
Even von Schroif had to smile.
List continued. “As instructed, we have carried out a thorough reconnaissance of the route to the front, including checking every bridge for its ability to bear a combined vehicle weight of sixty tonnes.”
“Sorry to have to correct you again, sir, but it’s not combined weight... its individual weight.”
“A single vehicle?” came the surprised response from Major List.
“That’s right, sir. I suggest it might be best if we check the route again. We don’t want any bridges collapsing on us.”
“Of course not. I’ll get the Kübelwagen ready. We can go together and get to know each other.”
As the Kübelwagen carrying von Schroif and List travelled across the wooded and undulating terrain of the rollbahn, the two men began to realise that, politics apart, the other was not such a bad egg after all. After what seemed, to von Schroif anyway, a wary start, they gradually relaxed and began to enjoy each other’s company.
As experienced East Front veterans, they kept an eye open for anything untoward. Fortunately, there were few bridges, and the dry weather meant there were no culverts or water courses to concern them.
“The next bridge is about five kilometres ahead. It was just past there that we had the business with the White Devil in the KV-1,” offered List.
“Are you sure, sir?” replied von Schroif.
“Sure as can be. I lost two of my best combat engineers...”
“It’s just that I thought he was on the southern sector. I have had brushes with him in the past.”
“Well, if you have any old scores to settle, now’s your chance. I’ll show you where the bastard destroyed an ambulance column... 500 wounded... burned alive... what a way to go. Horrible.”
“There are scores to settle alright, but how did he get onto the main rollbahn?”
“Came across country, though God knows how... Ours just bog down in these confounded swamps.”
This far behind the lines, there was no sign of danger. The dappled light of the sun streamed through the tree-lined route, and life seemed almost pleasant.
The brief idyll came to a crashing halt as they rounded a bend and began a long decline leading to a short wooden bridge spanning a narrow river. As they approached the bridge, the fact that there were no guards instantly alerted both men. Vital river crossings were guarded by platoon strength, but even small spans, however easily replaceable, should have at least a squad. This bridge had no one on guard.
As they approached, List slowed the Kübelwagen down, and von Schroif spotted the sight the men dreaded. Four field-grey figures lay sprawled in grotesque attitudes on the roadside. The terrifying conclusion was obvious and, for two Eastern Front veterans, it did not need verbalising – partisans!
Fortunately for von Schroif and List, Boris Stankov and his men were comparative novices. Emboldened by their first success the previous night, they had slavishly followed Korsak’s suggestion and had wasted no time. They had little difficulty in overcoming the unsuspecting bridge guards, but there had been too little time to plan and organise. The simple fact was that no one in all eighteen members of Stankov’s unit knew for certain how to wire a bridge for destruction.
The equipment had been air-dropped and retrieved alright, but now all the men were gathered under the bridge, attempting to help wire the last of the explosives, or to provide advice on how best to do it. A great deal of advice, not all of it useful, was being given. Suggestions and helpful hints mixed with Stankov’s urgent comma
nds conspired to concealed the arrival of the Kübelwagen. It also masked the soft sound of two men slipping off safety-catches on automatic weapons and stealthily advancing down the bank.
Despite the relative confusion, some bickering, and more than a hint of panic, Stankov was pleased to witness the last of the explosives being wired into position and the detonator primed. All that remained was for the plunger to be rammed home. So intent were he and his crew on achieving their first independent blow against the fascists that, in their amateur enthusiasm, every one of the group felt certain that someone else was keeping a look out.
Keeping low, the grey-clad figure of Major List was now settled in prime firing position, watching as the black-clad figure of von Schroif slipped into his position on the other side of the narrow road.
The two men nodded to each other in an unspoken signal to attack and sprang into a firing position, their machine pistols spitting fire into the compact group of partisans, who fell like skittles as the bullets ripped into them. Bodies fell left and right and any return fire was directed impotently skywards as the few partisans who could bring their weapons to bear were swiftly mown down in confusion and chaos.
One of those bodies falling to the ground, industrially shredded by machine pistol bullets, was that of Boris Stankov. As the life drained from him, he determined that he would use his last instant in the service of his country in her heroic struggle against the fascists. Boris Stankov’s last act was to reach out with a blood-stained hand for the plunger.
The force of the resulting explosion threw von Schroif backwards into a muddy pool, which certainly saved his life, as a cascade of falling logs and planking crashed into the ground where he had been standing only seconds earlier. List had been fortunate enough to witness Stankov reaching for the plunger and had dived into a water-filled ditch. As the last debris fell all around him, he rose slowly to his feet and ran over to the half-submerged, prone figure of Hans von Schroif. His terror turned to humour as the mud-encased figure arose floundering from the shallow pool.
Tiger Command! Page 19