by Leo Kessler
Hitler did not notice the look, but he came straight to the point. The new threat seemed to have cleared his mind; he was his old self. ‘Thanks to the miserable leadership of the Italians it is as good as certain that Sicily will be lost,’ he said. ‘Maybe Eisenhower will land tomorrow on the Italian mainland or in the Balkans. When that happens our entire European south flank will be directly threatened. I must prevent that.’
Slowly he walked to the window, clenching and unclenching his fists, as if he were working out the problem within himself, weighing up, first one point and then the other. Outside the black-uniformed guards lurked in the firs, always watchful. Blondi lay sprawled in the dusty shade, her long purple tongue hanging out as she gasped for air. It was terribly hot again despite the earliness of the hour.
Hitler turned suddenly and faced his generals. ‘I need divisions for Italy, gentlemen. Since they can’t be taken from any other place, they must come from Russia.’
‘Kursk?’ Model snapped.
‘Yes, Model. Kursk. I’ll move the First Panzer Division from France to the Peloponnese. But I need more armour down in the south so that I can move quickly wherever the Anglo-Americans strike. I’ll have to take most of Hoth’s armour, or at least his SS Corps. They’re his best.’
‘They were,’ Jodl told himself for he had just seen the latest casualty figures, but naturally he did not say that to the Führer, who snapped:
‘Jodl, order the SS Corps to be withdrawn immediately.
‘But that means the end of Citadel, as I have already stated,’ Model persisted, his face flushing an even deeper red than normal.
Hitler turned on him. ‘For the time being, Model.’ He clenched his fists and his face hardened, full of the fire which had taken him out of the Viennese slums to be the head of Europe’s greatest nation. ‘But we shall go back, Model. Believe you me – we shall go back!’
Jodl sighed and mentally began making out the withdrawal order for the SS Corps, while the Führer and his generals stared at each other in tense silence.
‘Attention all commanders … attention all commanders,’ the Vulture’s voice snapped through the static. ‘I say again hold your fire! Gentlemen, I’d like to wish you luck.’ For the first time in four years that he had known him, von Dodenburg sensed a note of emotion in the CO’s voice. ‘And good shooting!’
‘Good shooting,’ Schulze snorted as the radio went dead again. ‘We’ll need more than flaming good shooting to cope with them Ivans sods out there.’
‘Hold your wind,’ von Dodenburg snapped and concentrated on the Popov tanks coming ever closer.
‘Crap said the King and a thousand arseholes bent and took the strain, for in those days the word of the King was law,’ Schulze muttered sourly under his, breath. But he, too, busied himself with his sight.
There must be at least a hundred Popov tanks rumbling towards them, von Dodenburg told himself grimly, more than the whole Bodyguard could probably muster after yesterday’s hellish fighting. Panting suddenly, for no reason that he could analyse, he watched the midday sun catch the serrations on the protective spare tracks that the Popovs had slung over their glacis plates. The T-34s were buttoned down, obviously ready for battle, and von Dodenburg knew that the Popovs, like them, were adjusting their range scales, checking their controls, ready with the next round at the command to fire.
He flung a glance to left and right, checking the Vulture’s dispositions. The CO had put his remaining tanks in pretty good positions. He had taken over the remnants of Schwarz’s Second and given them the advantage of some shallow hillocks so that they could take up a hull defensive position if necessary. The Third, over to his own right flank, had been given a more mobile role and were hurrying to outflank the Russian attack. For his part, his six remaining Tigers would hold the centre, relying on the strength of their glacis plate armour to withstand any concentrated Russian fire – that was as long as they could keep the Russians at a distance with their own superior 88s.
Their defence was excellent, yet the Soviet force rumbling into the attack was awesome, even after yesterday’s tremendous numbers. Even in his wildest dreams, he had never seen so much enemy armour. Suddenly the second-lieutenant, who now commanded the 3rd, broke into his consciousness, his voice distorted by fear.
‘Attention all stations … attention all stations! I’m going to engage now. Range three hundred metres … And wish me luck!’ the fearful young voice stopped abruptly.
Von Dodenburg swung his periscope round hurriedly. To his right, the first Mark IV fired – and missed.
‘Stupid bastard!’ he cursed aloud. ‘You should have waited!’
But the Tiger next to the Mark IV scored a hit with his first shot and the radio crackled with hoarse cheers. A T-34 went up in a sudden ball of flame.
‘Christ on a crutch – and another!’ Schulze yelled over the intercom, as a squat shape was suddenly arrested and a trailer of inky smoke started to rise from it, staining the glittering summer sky. The Popov crew bailed out, to fold instantly, as the machine gun bullets hit them.
The Soviet commander – he had to be a general officer with so many vehicles under his command – reacted at once. Leaving a dozen T-34s to swing round and slug it out, glacis to glacis with the 3rd, he increased the speed of the rest of his formation. They streaked forward at fifty kilometres an hour, bouncing up and down over the steppe on their excellent Christie suspension, firing as they did so. The distance between them and the waiting Wotan narrowed. Five hundred … four hundred … three hundred and fifty … three hundred metres.
‘Surely, we’ve got to open fire –’ von Dodenburg began.
The Vulture’s voice cut in coldly, the emotional note gone now. It was as if he were giving orders on some peacetime range outside Berlin. ‘We’re going into the hull down position now, von Dodenburg. Engage them at will … Ensure they don’t outflank you—’ The rest was drowned by the metallic buffeting of two AP shells striking their glacis plate and zooming off again at a forty-five degree angle.
‘Fire!’ von Dodenburg roared.
The 88 erupted with a thick crump. The Tiger shuddered and the breech came racing back to eject the smoking yellow shell-case. To their immediate front, the T-34 which had hit them, came to an abrupt stop. Nothing happened. No one bailed out. There was no flame. Nothing. But the Popov tank neither moved nor fired again.
‘Damn fine shot, Schulze!’ von Dodenburg yelled exhuberantly. ‘Let’s have more of the same.’ He rammed home another gleaming shell.
Schulze needed no urging. The T-34s were coming in at the six lone Tigers from all sides now. The sweat pouring down his back, staining his shirt back, he pumped shell after shell into the attackers. Von Dodenburg flung a glance at the shell bins. They were emptying fast. The floor was covered with empty shell cases. But they dare not let up. Once they did, the Soviets would come in for the kill. Now their immediate front was littered with burning Soviet tanks, their crews sprawled out in the blackened grass or hanging dead from the turrets. But there seemed no end to them, and they were oblivious to their tremendous losses. The first Tiger bought it, outflanked by a T-34 which had sneaked to the flank under the cover of smoke and hit it in the rear sprocket.
‘Close up!’ von Dodenburg screamed over the radio. ‘Close up, sod you … Do you want the bastards to get in among us!’
Hurriedly the two Tigers holding the flanks reversed closer to the remaining three. Too late! Three T-34s pounced on the Tiger to the left. 76 mm shells smashed into its side. It heeled as if it had been struck by the great wind. Metal lava erupted from its side. A tongue of flame licked lazily around the engine cowling followed by thick white smoke. But von Dodenburg had no further time for the stricken Tiger. The Russian commander had spotted his chance. Five further T-34s broke away from the main body and roared in after the three which had knocked out the flank Tiger.
‘Everybody – everybody!’ von Dodenburg yelled frantically. ‘Concentrate on those T-34s to
the left. Fire!’
Schulze, good soldier that he was, reacted first. He pumped three quick shots at the advancing T-34s. One went wild, but the other two hit their targets. Down below Hartmann pressed the trigger of his machine gun. The Popov crews were cut down before they’d gone five metres. But the remaining six came rattling on, heading straight into the flank of von Dodenburg’s formation. Another Tiger was hit and disappeared in a spectacular ball of crazy orange flame. The shell must have hit the ammunition bin.
Von Dodenburg was no longer afraid, just angry. He had never been so angry in his whole life before: angry with the Popovs, his inexperienced crews, the war, himself. ‘Hartmann,’ he yelled over the intercome. ‘We will advance!’
‘What!’ the ex-legionnaire roared back.
‘You heard me – or have you been eating big beans! We will advance!’
‘But Captain—’
‘If you don’t move this metal bitch in one second, I’ll blow your shitty brains out and move it myself! March or croak! All right, you’d better march!’ Hartmann ‘marched’.
The dispatch rider slewed his dust-covered bike round dramatically and let it drop to the steppe behind the Vulture’s Tigers, waiting for the Soviet attack to swamp them. Doubled low, he pelted towards the command vehicle. With the butt of his schmeisser he hammered at the metal while the first Soviet ranging shells whizzed over his head.
‘Open up!’ he screamed with fear as they came ever closer. ‘Open up the crappy lid, won’t you!’
Finally his hammering was heard. The Vulture poked his head out. Metzger’s followed.
‘What’s the matter?’ the Vulture yelled.
The DR cupped his hands around his mouth against the mounting thunder of the guns. ‘Dispatch from division, sir!’ he cried, his eyes fixed on the Soviet tanks getting ever closer. ‘Here.’ He thrust the message into the Vulture’s hands.
Hastily the Vulture read through it. ‘Good. Give me the message form.’
Swiftly the Vulture scribbled a few words, while the Soviet shells began to creep towards them and the tank gunners started to adjust their range.
‘There. See that gets to the General.’
The DR snatched the message. ‘Yessir!’ he yelled and dropped off the deck. Crouched low, he doubled back to his bike and kicked it back into noisy life. The next instant he was off in a tremendous cloud of dust, as if the whole of the Red Army were after him. The Vulture chuckled, pleased with the message.
‘What is it, sir?’ Metzger asked anxiously, his eyes flicking continually to the advancing Soviet monsters.
‘We shall live to fight another day, Metzger. We have been ordered to withdraw immediately.’
‘Thank God for that, sir,’ Metzger said with an overwhelming sense of relief.
‘Yes, at least I’ll still be in the running for those general’s stars. Those fat-arsed base stallions won’t get all the promotion that comes out of this war. Now, Metzger, get your head out of the way. Let’s button up before those Popovs knock it off.’
Swiftly he dropped inside the cupola and picked up the mike.
‘Make smoke,’ the CO yelled over the radio. ‘Make smoke and move out. Now!’
The frightened young tank commanders needed no urging. The Popovs were almost upon them now. All along their line the black smoke containers hissed into the air and burst over their turrets with soft plops. Engines sprang into life. Hastily the drivers flung the tanks into reverse. The sixty-ton monsters backed out of the hollow, firing as they went.
The Tiger bounced and came to a sudden stop. Down below Hartmann screamed like a woman.
‘Deschner’ – he meant the co-driver – ‘he’s been hit, sir … The top of his head has come off!’
For a moment von Dodenburg did not seem to digest the news. His head was ringing like a metal bell and the turret was filled with a strange echoing sound that would not die. Then he saw the thick white smoke which had started to stream up from below. Suddenly the turret was filled with acrid choking fumes.
He shook his head violently and yelled, ‘Bale out … she’s going to blow!’
There was another devastating explosion close by. The stricken Tiger rocked violently. The T-34s were confident now. They had crippled the German; they were coming in for the kill. Von Dodenburg crouched and blinking in the biting smoke, peered inside the driving compartment.
Deschner was sitting upright in his seat still, his hand clasped on the machine gun handle, as if he were just about to fire it. But his head was absent. It lay on the littered deck, the radio earphones still attached, grinning up at him. Sickened, von Dodenburg swung himself up again. There was nothing they could do for Deschner – and Hartmann had already bailed out.
‘All right, Schulze,’ he yelled, as the first flames started to lick up around his feet. ‘Get out of here – quick!’
Heavy smoke was everywhere, obscuring everything, pouring a putrid smother over their own stricken Tiger. Pressing his body close to the turret ring, he rolled over it, out and dropped onto the steppe. On the other side Schulze did the same. The blast buffeted him across the face. Somewhere close by a Russian machine gun chattered. Tracer zipped past him. He struggled to his feet. He felt unutterably weary. All he wanted to do was to lie down on the churned earth, close his eyes and drift into sleep, forgetting the tragedy with had struck his company.
Schulze loomed up out of the smoke, his face black and bleeding from a nasty gash over the right eye. Hartmann followed, his helmet off, struggling with his pistol belt. Finally he got the buckle undone and threw it down with a gesture of contempt.
‘What’s that for, Hartmann?’ von Dodenburg asked shakily.
‘I’ve had enough … I’m buggering off,’ Hartmann snarled and ducked as another shell exploded close by.
Von Dodenburg wiped the dirt off his face and stared at Hartmann open-mouthed.
‘What did you say?’ he asked finally.
‘You heard … I’m buggering off. We’re all buggering off.’
‘But you can’t do that! That’s desertion in the face of the enemy,’ he protested wildly. ‘They’ll stand you up against a wall for that.’
In his sudden anger, von Dodenburg did not notice the quick wink Hartmann gave Schulze.
‘They can have their sodding war, Captain,’ Hartmann said, while Schulze moved behind the shocked young officer. ‘We’ve had it! Don’t you see?’ The ex-legionnaire’s eyes bulged from his head with rage. ‘Germany’s lost the shitting war. The fucking Popovs have beaten us. Now it’s everybody for himself. And if you were smart, Captain, you’d do the same.’
Frantically von Dodenburg fumbled for his pistol. ‘Hartmann,’ he rapped above the noise of the Soviet advance, which was now sweeping towards the Vulture’s positions, ‘you must be out of your head! This is only one battle. Germany isn’t finished by a long chalk. Christ, man, how the devil can you talk such—’
Captain von Dodenburg never finished the sentence. What felt like a brick wall fell on the back of his head. The burning horizon tilted, righted itself, then tilted again. His eyes swung upwards, suddenly sightless. He gasped harshly as his legs splayed out from beneath him and he blacked out …
On the hilltop overlooking the battlefield, General Rotmistrov lowered his binoculars and rubbed the circles they had made on his cheeks. Beside him the squat politico looked a moment longer at the retreating Germans before doing the same.
‘The Fritzes are running,’ he said slowly, almost as if he had to convince himself that what he had just seen was no illusion.
‘You said they would, Comrade Khrushchev,’ Rotmistrov said.
The Ukrainian grinned. ‘I know, but I didn’t quite believe myself, then, Comrade General,’ he answered.
Rotmistrov smiled in spite of his dislike of the other man. On this great day, he could not be angry with him even though he was always interfering in matters which were the concern of the Stavka1 alone. ‘And now Comrade Khrushchev – what now?’
Khrushchev flung out a pudgy, dirty-nailed hand in the direction of Wotan’s fleeing tanks. The survivors had broken through their own smoke-screen and were clattering off to the west at top speed.
‘We march, Comrade General – we march to the west,’ he exclaimed.
‘And our objective?’
‘The objective,’ the future dictator repeated the question thoughtfully. ‘The objective, General Rotmistrov! That is simple. It is Berlin.’
Notes
1. The Soviet General Staff.
FOUR: THE YANKS ARE COMING
Amis everywhere! They must breed like shitting rabbits in the United States of shitting America!’
SS Man Schulze to Major von
Dodenburg, Sept. 20th, 1943
ONE
The camouflaged Opel Wanderer which had driven him from Aeroporto dell’ Uba stopped to let the column of undersized, black-shirted Militia shuffle by, the white dust powdering their shabby boots. They were singing:
‘Butto le sere, sotto quel fanal
presso la caserne …
Con ti Lili Marlene
con ti Lili Marlene …’
But there was no enthusiasm in their liquid Italian voices, just cynicism and war weariness. The big tough para guarding the HQ spat in the dust as they passed, his contempt for their Italian allies unconcealed.
‘Sodding macaronis,’ he grunted as von Dodenburg got out of the staff car. Then he recognised the major’s stars and the death’s head badge on the cap, which surmounted von Dodenburg’s bandaged head. He snapped to attention. ‘Good morning sir,’ he bellowed, as if he were on parade.
Carefully Major von Dodenburg touched his hand to his cap. ‘Good morning, Corporal. I wonder if you can help me?’
The para clicked to attention again, his rubber-soled jumpboots making a very unsatisfactory sound on the burning hot asphalt.