Battle of Kursk

by Tom Zola

  “The plans call for a pincer movement from the north and the south at Olkhovatka, or more specifically Prokhorovka,“ the commander replied, pointing his baton at the towns marked on the map, which were both situated right behind the front line in Russian territory.

  “The projection of the front not only gives us the option to straighten the front line,” the commander further explained, “but also to lock in and destroy masses of hostile forces through the pincer movement.”

  Frowning, Engelmann rubbed his chin. “The Russians should be able to calculate that we’ll attack right there,” he said. “And anyway that’s not Manstein’s style at all. Didn’t the field marshal always preach vast counter-attacks against the flanks as being our only option?”

  The commander shook his head vehemently. “Not von Manstein,” he retorted. “It was the chancellor himself who pushed Citadel through – against quite a bit of resistance coming from the officer corps, or so people say.”

  “Is that starting up again … ” Engelmann mumbled, shaking his head.

  “No. Von Witzleben’s right.” The commander’s face beamed conviction and optimism. “We have to act. Gentlemen, we’ll take back the initiative in the East.”

  Engelmann wasn’t really convinced about that yet.

  Lucerne, Switzerland, April 18th, 1943

  The day that opened up over Lucerne had already begun with rain at dawn.

  A brawny man named Thomas Taylor, with wide shoulders and freckles, looked with tired eyes through the window of the tiny apartment at the Reuss River, which divided the city into two parts and now swallowed up millions of raindrops. Taylor wiped his face with his right hand and noticed that he urgently needed a cup of coffee now, but as usual the boys from Military Intelligence hadn’t prepared a thing. Taylor was just glad that they had at least remembered to set up a bed for him in the apartment.

  These damn theoretics! He cursed silently. Next time these dickheads can take care of their shit on their own! The air was filled with the stench of cold cigarette smoke. Taylor took a drag on his cigarette and exhaled the smoke in long trails.

  The young man – Taylor wasn’t even in his mid-twenties yet – then glanced at his watch and stretched while his lips grimaced. He had to hurry … and felt awful. No wonder, considering the odyssey he had been on during the last few days. He ran his hand through his red hair and blinked a few times.

  Oh well, if nothing else, the rain outside’ll wake me up. Again he stared out the window. A genuine downpour burst over Lucerne. Loud raindrops pelted the roofs of the buildings.

  Crap! Shit! He cursed again, flooding his brain with English four-letter words his father had taught him. Then he reached for his clothes and started to get dressed: shirt, pants, tie. He would have preferred to wear a uniform, but that probably wouldn’t go down too well here in Switzerland.

  Why was Taylor here? He had asked himself that question quite often and had always come to a very satisfying conclusion: because he was the best at what he did. Taylor had made himself more and more indispensable for his unit over the years, mainly due to his multi-national background and multi-language skills – and of course his capabilities as a soldier, which shouldn’t be forgotten, either. Taylor, born in 1920, was a German with a Scottish father, and he had lived in Poland – back then before the Reich. Because of his background he not only spoke German fluently but also English and Polish, was well acquainted with the different cultures and traditions of these countries, and could therefore pass as a Brit, Scot, Irishman, Pole or maybe even as an American, at any time. Due to his German citizenship – having been born on German soil and having a German mother – and the attraction the military held for him, he had signed up for service in the Wehrmacht in 1938. Then pure chance helped him: Because of an inquiry directed to his unit, his former division commander introduced him to Oberst i. G. von Lahousen, a colonel in the General Staff Service who was looking for soldiers and civilians who spoke Polish. And that was how it came that he witnessed the invasion of Poland not just as a common infantry soldier, but had been planted near Breslau even before the war began as a member of the Kampfgruppe Ebbinghaus – a special combat formation – in order to occupy and control important industrial facilities until the German Army arrived. And then everything happened really fast: When the German Reich established the first command unit in the form of two companies in October of 1939, Taylor had been there from the beginning. He was happy to be able to serve in the unit, which had grown to the size of a division and was by now famously known as the “Brandenburgers”. On the one hand, Taylor simply felt a higher calling than to just waste away as cannon fodder in some foxhole on the front line. He enjoyed the thrills of his adventurous profession and – this may have been the most important point of all – he wanted to make himself as indispensable to his country as possible, and an individual soldier could only really manage to do that in a special forces unit. Thomas had already encountered the racism of some Germans, and even though everything pointed toward improvement at the moment, he was still afraid he might meet with a harsh fate some day. Anyway, he felt like a German and did what he considered to be his duty to the Reich.

  How it came to this situation here in Switzerland, though, was a simple story: Military Intelligence needed someone who could pass as British as well as Swiss for a special mission, and since MI, which originally created the Ebbinghaus Unit, had always worked closely together with the Brandenburgers, they naturally looked for qualified personnel there and finally ended up with Sergeant Thomas Taylor. Now Taylor was certainly not Swiss, but he was blessed with an important talent: He could imitate others perfectly – certain individuals with their personal quirks and their very own style of talking, or even whole dialects and accents. Anything Taylor had ever heard even just once, he could reproduce absolutely convincingly. Ever since last autumn, his imitations of Himmler, Hitler and Göring had been smash successes with his unit.

  In any case, this was how it came that Taylor had been transferred to the Military Intelligence Division in Stuttgart, where he had been prepared for his mission intensively; and as part of this preparation he also had occupied himself with Swiss radio programs and movies for hours on end. Two days ago the German Reichsbahn had transported him from Stuttgart to Constance, where he furtively crossed the border to Switzerland at night – just as he had learned it in his reconnaissance training. He had then helped himself to a bicycle in a small border town and ridden the bike all the way to Lucerne, where an apartment prepared by MI had been waiting for him.

  So far, so good, Taylor thought. Of course he was glad that he hadn’t had to spend the worst months of the year in Russia, especially since “Ivan” – the German nickname for the Russians – had turned the area where Taylor’s company had operated at his departure into a hellish inferno. Yet at the same time it bothered him that he wasn’t with his Kameraden during such hard times, and he desperately hoped that they wouldn’t hold it against him.

  Again Taylor looked out the window while the raindrops ran down the glass pane. If it hadn’t already happened last night, a murder was taking place right now in Lucerne, and therefore the United Kingdom would have to do with one less spy in the future. Or the Soviet Union. MI wasn’t totally sure where the spy came from.

  What a dirty game! Taylor thought spontaneously. Well, that’s what came with being a human being – a dirty game in all walks of life.

  *

  It still hadn’t stopped raining. Everywhere thick drops of water splashed into the Reuss River, but at least it wasn’t too cold. Thomas Taylor walked across the Chapel Bridge with its wooden roof, towards a thick tower right in front of the other side of the river. The tower looked pretty much like – Taylor couldn’t think of a more apt description – an erect penis emerging from the water of the river. In the meantime a light-colored coat concealed his P08 pistol from being detected. He would know in a moment whether he had to use it or not. A thin, middle-aged man with bony cheeks and thick
glasses, wearing a dark coat and a dark hat, was waiting at the end of the bridge, half-hidden by a building front.

  Taylor glanced around, but apart from himself and this guy there wasn’t a soul anywhere near.

  Why should there be? Sunday morning, it’s raining … who the hell would go out of the house right now? Here he sighed to himself. Oh, right – me.

  He approached the thin man. For a short moment their eyes met.

  ”Beautiful weather it is, young friend,” the man said in English with a German accent and stared at the dark river.

  ”Indeed it is. So Dora gave me the day off,” Taylor replied and also stared at the water. What imbecilic crap the Brits come up with! He mentally shook his head.

  ”Okay, so you’re the new guy?”

  Now their eyes met again, and Taylor answered, “Let’s skip the small talk and get down to business.”

  “As you wish, my friend.” And with these words the thin man gave Taylor an envelope.

  ”I fear my sources are vanishing. Nevertheless your government should consider handing this over to your friends as well,” he added in a serious voice. “The Germans are up to something.”

  ”Haven’t you heard? Germany is practically beaten … it’s just a matter of time.” It almost caused Taylor physical pain to utter such a blatant lie, but then he was just playing a part.

  “Well, we’ll see.” With these words the conversation was over for the other man; he turned around and disappeared in the pouring rain.

  Taylor stared after him for a moment. “Goodbye, Mr. Rössler,” he whispered. At least Taylor had not been forced to use his weapon, which meant three very gratifying things: First of all, the damned Military Intelligence had finally done a good job; second, the Reich now had an excellent new source of information; and third, they could now send the Brits as much manipulated information as they wanted to. Or the Russians – as already mentioned, MI didn’t have all the facts yet. Finally Taylor glanced at the envelope. Only a single word was written on it and he had not the faintest idea of its meaning: Citadel.

  North of Ponyri, Soviet Union, May 2nd, 1943

  Heeresgruppe Mitte – 47 kilometers north of Kursk

  “Sergeant Berning?“ A messenger reached the swale on the forest floor that Berning’s squad had settled in. The starry sky and the brightly lit moon kept the night from being pitch dark.

  “Here!” a bright voice with Austrian roots to it called out. Only seconds later the messenger had identified its owner. “Sergeant Berning. Orders from the platoon leader! Reconnaissance Patrol Berning! Report to the company commander at 23:15 hours!”

  The sergeant repeated the order at once – just the way every German soldier had been trained to do. By repeating an order, the information burned itself into the recipient’s memory, and it allowed the other party to verify that everything had been understood correctly: “Reconnaissance Patrol Berning, at 23:15 hours to the company commander.”

  The runner confirmed the order and disappeared back into the darkness as quickly as he had appeared. Berning, however, turned around to his men whom he could only make out as dark silhouettes by now. Nevertheless he sensed their stares, their serious faces and the tension in the air. The officers had drummed into them long and urgently how important this upcoming operation was – and now it would actually start. Berning felt an unpleasant twinge in his stomach. In no way did he feel up to what was about to happen.

  As the squad was inside a secured perimeter, Berning didn’t have to post a guard and could therefore gather all of his nine soldiers around him.

  Again his eyes wandered from one steel-helmeted silhouette to the next. The night was quiet; the only sound was the chirping of the insects. It was almost frightening – the silence before the storm. Berning knew that the enemy was about three miles away from here, no more. Three miles to the north – and he would encounter human beings who would try to kill him. Berning was afraid, terribly afraid, but he didn’t want his men to know that. He sensed the expectant looks on their faces. Yet, he had always hoped to survive without having to shoot at anybody. It had worked in the past, but what about now? Now there was this reconnaissance patrol!

  “Okay, men. Let’s do this!” he began, repeating the usual phrase because he couldn’t think of anything better to say.

  He didn’t feel good; it was as if his whole body was struggling against the upcoming mission. Berning briefly almost felt the urge to throw up, but he was able to suppress it. In the end he added a personal note to the phrase. “Everybody is okay?”

  He made out nodding heads until a shrill voice squealed, “Bochum!” It was Rudi Bongartz cheerfully replying to his question. The young lance corporal was a guy one could only describe as being totally nuts. Bongartz was always in a good mood, even in the midst of the worst combat. And he was a very good-natured, caring person. Yet in combat, without any hesitation, he nevertheless killed with bullets, knife, and fist everything that didn’t wear a German uniform. Rudi hadn’t always been in Berning’s squad but he had already experienced several combat missions. And he was a total and unconditional fan of the VFL Bochum soccer team that currently enjoyed considerable success in the Gauliga, in which the team had even ranked number three last year. Rudi was the heart and soul of the squad, and no matter how tough the times were, he always managed to get the boys back on track.

  With that, the ice was broken. The soldiers grinned, visibly relaxing. And Bongartz even topped it by saying, “Yeah, so what? Number seven and we just got started, I’m telling you. We’re on our way! Just wait and see! Bochum, buddies! Bochum!”

  Kolter, who was sitting at the side, grinned while stroking the shaft of his gun.

  But now the queasiness in Berning’s stomach returned. As the reconnaissance patrol, they would form the tip of the spear in Operation Citadel – a doubtful honor in his eyes.

  “Well, all right, men.“ The sergeant cleared his throat several times; then he issued his preliminary commands in short sentences so that while he took care of issuing the commander’s orders, his squad could do the preparations: Check the ammunition supplies, hand excess material to the 1st squad, inform the neighboring squads about the planned activities, and so on. And above all: hand over the pay books!

  “And, Bongartz?” Berning ended his instructions.

  “Yeah?”

  “You’ll get us another round of coffee.”

  North of Ponyri, Soviet Union, May 3rd, 1943

  Heeresgruppe Mitte – 75 kilometers north of Kursk

  Slowly, very slowly, the night gave way to dawn but the sun was nowhere to be seen yet. Berning’s squad had received the order to advance to the so-called Hill 241, a small mound about two miles in front of the German positions, and to see if the area behind it, a vast, open space surrounded by woods, was occupied by the enemy. In the worst-case scenario, the men of Reconnaissance Patrol Berning were to make contact with the enemy and dig in on the hill before noon, when the engineers would show up to clear the mine barrier assumed to be in this open space. That was the way dozens of minefields within the direct zone of attack of the German troops had been cleared last night. The mine-clearing activities that started this morning – therefore almost simultaneously with the attack – served the purpose of clearing minefields that were not directly in the path of the spearhead of the troops.

  Berning’s breathing turned shaky when his squad stepped out of the woods. The world around him still consisted only of silhouettes but the approaching daylight was getting brighter by the minute. No soldier under Berning’s command had ever been killed before, even though he had been a squad leader already for over a year. That fortunate fact was not only due to his leadership skills: Often Squad Berning had simply been lucky; for example, they had been recovering in Northern Italy during the battles of the last winter or they had just been in the “wrong place” when their own division had been involved in active combat.

  And now there is this reconnaissance patrol! Berning tho
ught, searching the area with his eyes. They had reached a small, open space covered with shrubs. It bordered on a thick, wooded area with a swampy subsoil behind it that they had to cross, and after that Hill 241 became visible as a small mound which rose up over the flat land that stretched all the way to the horizon.

  It’s actually perfect for tanks, the sergeant thought, trying to let these thoughts distract him from his fears that had already accelerated his breathing and made his palms sweat. The wooden surface of his K98k – a repeating rifle – had become very slippery between his wet fingers. The rest of the squad walked directly behind Berning in a file. First there was Bongartz, a chain smoker who would have loved to have a cig dangling from his lips but who only got to carry the MG 42. The machine gun was already equipped with a 100-round belt, and a second one was hanging from his neck. Private first class, Obergrenadier Udo Feitenhansel, marched next to Bongartz with his K98k. Together with his MG gunner, Feitenhansel, and another soldier by the name of Schröder, Berning formed the vanguard; the remaining soldiers followed at some distance behind them, and Steffen Kolter was in the back. Kolter thought he was better than his fellow soldiers and showed it in everything he said and did. Yet, as a soldier, he was really damned good. For that reason Kolter served Berning as his second-in-command and was to lead the squad from behind if required. That was precisely what the sergeant had learned at the military academy in Sigmaringen.

  Academy. Berning literally let the word melt in his mouth. Academy is academy, and being out in the field is an entirely different story. That’s what the seasoned soldiers kept saying, and Berning, too, sensed that he would get to know the deeper meaning of this saying all too soon. He felt much too young and inexperienced for this mission because, after all, it was his first active reconnaissance patrol. And he didn’t really want to do it either. He would rather be at home in Podersdorf am See in the Austrian Burgenland right now. This time of year he would spend the day at the lake with Gretel and sleep with her in her parents’ barn at night – just like they had done last summer when he had gotten home leave from the front line. Berning noticed that thoughts like these aroused him, and so he had to shake them off quickly. The image of Gretel’s plump breasts in his mind’s eye faded when he turned around to his men and signaled for them to stop and crouch down.