by Tom Zola
At least they weren’t the only reconnaissance patrol leaving the German positions right now. Without seeing it, Berning knew that to the left and right of him patrols like his own were setting out to investigate the remains of the extensive mine belt the Russians had laid.
“All right, men!” he said to his group. They looked at him, wide-eyed. They expected him to lead them in the best way possible, and at that moment Berning knew that he couldn’t deliver. He wanted nothing more than to be able to get up now and just leave. His eyes glazed over and he stopped for a second. He actually had to fight back tears.
“Well,” he stammered, and started to get himself under control again. “You know the mission. We are under observation by the SMG team – the heavy machine gun team – up to that edge of the woods over there. Now we need to save time, so on the double. I’ll show our objective on site.“
In the approaching light of dawn one could barely see the edge of the woods that was about one hundred and fifty yards ahead. Berning noted a distinct, thin, broad-leafed tree whose trunk had been broken halfway up and whose leaves were therefore now lying in the dirt.
“This direction, the one I’m pointing at,“ he ordered. ”One-fifty, broken tree. That’s our objective. Double time at my command. Understood?”
“Broken tree, understood!”
“Got it, Sarge!”
“Jawohl, I understand!”
“Bochum!!!”
“Jawohl, tree one-fifty.”
Berning looked around again. “Uh … at my command,“ he repeated while he pulled the sketch out of his chest pocket that he had prepared according to the commander’s map the night before. He stared at the amateurish lines on the paper.
He went through everything again in his mind. Positions, open space, woods, open space, hill. Why the hell did I take the sketch? I know the way!
Finally Berning got up and gave the command. The soldiers marched off immediately.
*
The sun had risen and cast those merciless scorching rays down on the land that the Russian summer was known for. Wheezing, Berning was the first to reach the edge of the woods. He was a good runner but one hundred and fifty yards over broken ground with his weapon, ammunition, and equipment was no easy task. His Kameraden followed behind him, exhausted.
“Secure the area in the woods!” the sergeant gasped, and moved several yards into the woods himself.
“Report!” he immediately demanded while his men positioned themselves around him, using trees and hollows in the ground as potential cover, and readied their weapons.
“Report!” Berning yelled again and felt his voice getting hoarse.
“No enemy present!” several voices hollered.
“Understood,” Berning confirmed, and rubbed his sweaty forehead. His helmet started to slip and to bother him, and his clothes stuck to every part of his body. What the cold had been in the winter, the damned mosquitoes were in the summer. Everything itched, and they kept swarming around everyone all the time. Berning waved his hand to keep the bloodsuckers from his face; then he turned to the SMG team at the other end of the plain, lifting his weapon over his head – the sign for “no hostiles in the area”.
The team leader at the other end responded to the sign. Then the sergeant turned towards the dark woods. The treetops here were so close together that they formed a dense roof, and the vegetation on the ground was just as thick and thorny in many places. Berning took one step and knew: From here on they were on their own.
*
The early morning heat woke Arthur Petrosjan. Even before he opened his eyes, he felt his whole body itching. The insects were already awake. Arthur opened his eyes abruptly. Thunderstruck, he jumped up and grabbed his Mosin-Nagant, a repeating rifle with a wooden stock. He was standing in a depression in the middle of the woods.
Da nét že! he moaned silently. Oh no! His heart began to race. Sweat poured from his forehead, flooding his face. Arthur jerked his head and peered around in all directions. Net!
“Ory Raydovoy ikhaylo ic?” he whispered over and over again. “Ory Raydovoy ikhaylo ic?” Desperately, he called his buddy from Georgia but he didn’t want to be too loud. He was aware of the fact that he was close to the German lines – and he found himself all alone! His platoon had marched on foot patrol through this section of the woods last night and had stopped for rest right at the spot where Arthur had just woken up. He actually had been supposed to secure the area but he had been too exhausted from the last days’ activities. They had constantly been in action until late at night, only to be tormented with weapons drills by the drill sergeants who had had plenty of sleep in the camp. Arthur was sure that if the Germans didn’t manage to destroy the Red Army soon, they’d manage to do it on their own.
And now he was scared. Had Comrade Sershant – the staff sergeant – noticed by now that Arthur was missing? What would he think? After all, Arthur had already messed up twice. This time they’d think that he had deserted! That he had gone over to the German side! This time they wouldn’t just punish him with a beating. This time they would shoot him.
Arthur’s eyes glazed over and his stomach churned. He had just thrown his whole life away.
Blin! He mentally cursed. Shit! Then he whispered the curse again: “Blin!” Tears ran down his face. Suddenly he heard a twig snap. He jumped, startled. Again it snapped. And again. Those were steps. Really close. Arthur hadn’t lost his comrades after all. He climbed out of the depression immediately and followed the sound. He thought he still had a chance to get by with a simple disciplinary action.
*
No matter how carefully they moved through the woods, they could never manage it in total silence. Here and there a twig would snap or the ground would creak, but as a reconnaissance patrol behind enemy lines one should at least try to move as quietly as possible. Here in the densely wooded area south of Hill 241 this wasn’t an easy thing to do, though. Where everything didn’t just disappear in the muddy swamp, the shrubs were so thick that every step was a strenuous effort. Sergeant Berning and his men struggled through knee-high brambles, whose thorns bored into the flesh of their legs. What made things worse was the thick foliage at eye level. Young birch trees and tall shrubs blocked the view of anything farther than twenty yards away.
Berning glanced at his watch, a present his father had given him on his twenty-first birthday. They were late and had to hurry or else the engineers would beat them to the hill.
Suddenly a shrill whistle cut through the background noise, and the soldiers froze. Berning turned around and saw Bongartz, who was pointing the shaft of his gun in a northern direction – the troop’s signal for “potential enemy ahead”. Berning looked in the direction the gun pointed at – the heart of the woods where green thicket blocked his view. Yet then he also heard the crackling sound ahead of them.
There is something out there ... or somebody, Berning realized in his mind, and he was afraid that his weapon would slip out of his sweaty hands. He squeezed the wood so hard that his wrists hurt.
*
Arthur stumbled through the woods, forgetting everything he had ever learned in his military training. He had to think of his farm and his father who now had to get by on his own somehow. Arthur just wanted to get away. Out of these miserable woods, away from this fucking war. The queasy feeling in his stomach got worse. It was no longer only just the fear of being punished when he had finally found his unit again – of course, the most important thing was that he would find them and not vice versa, or else they would think he was a deserter. But at the same time his feeling of homesickness returned. It tightened his stomach and raised the urge to just sit down and cry. What the hell was he supposed to do? What was he doing here, anyway?
A thick row of hedges appeared in front of him; it was so dense that he couldn’t see through it, and somewhere behind it he had made out these sounds.
“Blin!” he cursed under his breath because the noises had died down. But then he froze a
nd raised his weapon. What if they were Germans? Fresh sweat formed on his brow and moistened his hair. His helmet slipped on his wet hair down to his forehead, blocking his view over and over again so that he had to keep pushing it back.
Hesitantly he took a step forward and stopped. He hadn’t even chambered a round yet! And what if they were his comrades after all? How would they react if they saw him first – pointing his gun at them? How would Comrade Sershant react? Arthur’s eyelids twitched. He mustered up all of his courage and marched through the bushes, shielding his face with his hands.
“Someone’s coming through the bushes,“ Bongartz whispered, raising his gun. Berning’s squad was completely petrified. Berning’s hands doused his weapon with sweat, and his helmet slipped across his head. He turned to glance quickly at his men.
No! he thought. Beginner’s mistake! All of his soldiers had focused only on the bush – everyone but Kolter, who had stayed focused on the area he was to secure – the direction of six o’clock.
“Psst ...” Berning whispered to get his squad’s attention, continuing softly, “... watch your sectors!”
Did Arthur just hear a voice? He stopped and listened but now he couldn’t hear anything in the area ahead anymore. He wasn’t sure; after all, he had lumbered through the undergrowth like an elephant, and the noise of snapping twigs and the soil, which sank under his boots, had drowned out any sounds in the background. Was there really anyone behind these bushes?
Slúšayu, he prayed silently. Slúšayu ... Slúšayu ... Arthur was a religious man. Though he didn’t believe that God intervened with the fate of any individual person, at this moment he prayed to any higher power that was available to stand by him. Once again he gathered all his courage. He lifted his right boot, which was already full of mud, and took his next step, desperately hoping that he had gone to the chapel of Tukh Manuk often enough in his life.
A tiny fly buzzed in front of Berning’s face but he didn’t want to move to shoo it away. Keeping his whole body tense, he focused his gun on the bush and listened to the sounds that were coming closer. The silhouette of a human figure became visible behind the foliage. A German? A Russian? Berning couldn’t tell, but he didn’t want to risk taking a shot at a friendly. He silently hoped the figure would just turn around and disappear into the woods.
“Fire only on my order!” Berning whispered. The fly landed right above his upper lip. It tickled his skin and crawled into his right nostril. It was so disgusting that Berning felt like going ballistic but he remained frozen. Suddenly the bushes in front of him split apart, and a Russian stepped into view. The man froze as soon as he saw his enemies. And the Germans stared back – with raised weapons.
Arthur stopped breathing at the sight of the Germans. Gaping, he started to shake all over and began to hyperventilate. Carbon dioxide escaped from his mouth in quick breaths while his muscles cramped up.
Sergeant Berning stared at the Russian with wide eyes, unable to think straight.
Kapitulyáciya! Was the only word that popped into Arthur’s mind. Surrender! After all, these Germans were good people! Educated people! They would treat him well! The warnings about the Germans’ atrocities were nothing but propaganda! Suddenly he cheered up and was overcome with joy. He wouldn’t have to fight any more, and who knows – maybe they would even send him home. What good was an Armenian farmer’s son to the Germans anyway? Maybe he would go back home soon ...
Arthur’s right hand dropped the leather strap of his weapon that he had slung over his shoulder. There was a muffled sound as the Mosin-Nagant gun kissed the ground. Then he took a step towards the Germans.
“Stop, halt!” Berning yelled in German, English and Russian. Kolter, who had stayed resolutely in the area he was securing until now, turned around to see what was going on behind him. All he could see was a Russian soldier.
Arthur begged them desperately not to shoot him, but all he could speak was Armenian and a few words of Russian. He could tell that they didn’t understand him. Sweat flowed down his back in streams.
Berning could tell that the man wanted to surrender. “Don’t move, men!” he yelled, but Kolter had already pulled the trigger of his weapon. The projectile slammed through Arthur’s upper torso. His face distorted into a soundless scream and he collapsed.
“Damn it, you idiots!” Kolter yelled at his Kameraden. “Do you really wanna wait until he stabs you to death?”
Berning was totally confused. Wondering, he stared at his men. “I think he … he just wanted to surrender,” he stammered. His mind was racing. Did they just commit a war crime? Did the poor man just want to surrender? Or did he really want to attack him?
It was Kolter who finally opened his mouth. “Surrender? Yeah, right, no way … ” He couldn’t go on because at that very moment a 7.62-millimeter bullet hissed through his body. Not able to believe it, Kolter stared one more time at the hole that suddenly gaped in his chest; then he fell forward to the ground and didn’t move any more. At the same moment fire opened up on Berning’s squad from three sides.
“Fire!” the sergeant yelled. His comrades threw themselves down on the ground or jumped behind the closest trees for cover. Single bullets hissed through the undergrowth, tearing deep holes into the tree trunks. The wind carried Russian words over to the German soldiers from all sides – yelled orders and calls of the enemy. Toward the northwest, where the woods grew less dense, Berning could make out brown figures darting around.
A PM M1910, a heavy Russian machine gun with a shield behind the barrel and a gun carriage on wheels, started to fire and tore everything around Berning’s troop into shreds. Short bursts of fire chopped up small and larger trees and blasted the branches around, while the impacts on the ground threw up small clumps of dirt. Berning saw how the shoulder of one of his men exploded and smithereens of flesh and uniform swirled around. Another soldier held his gun in front of his body to put the next cartridge into the chamber when a bullet made his K98k burst and tear into the man’s flesh. Wooden splinters flew around and the weapon snapped in two. The defense line of Berning’s squad broke apart. At the next moment the survivors of his unit just ran.
East of Stroitel’, Soviet Union, May 3rd, 1943
Heeresgruppe Süd – 102 kilometers south of Kursk
Engelmann's unit with its panzers had moved into a small wooded area, awaiting the orders to attack sometime in the afternoon. Now all that mattered was how fast the engineers could clear the mine barriers ahead of them.
Every hatch of Engelmann’s tank was still open. The first sunbeams already kissed the ground, and it was now unusually warm. Thus the men used the chance to let the heat caught in the tanks out, and get at the same time a whiff of fresh air through the open hatches. They would be stuck for quite a while in their panzers, where a small microcosm of heat, stale air, and the stink of gasoline was building up. The air was filled with sizzling tension. In light of the upcoming battle, the whole Heeresgruppe Süd – the Army Group South – seemed to pause for a moment. It would not be just a battle - it would be the decisive one! If they failed today, here at this place, then the whole German Reich would collapse, and every one of them could imagine what that meant. There had been no shots yet, at least not in the section of Heeresgruppe Süd. Engelmann had opened both his hatch's lids and peered outside. He tucked his tank helmet in place, making sure that the throat microphone and the headphones were sitting correctly. Sitting on the right side in the front of the hull, Staff Sergeant Nitz’s head protruded from the tank and stared at the battlefield-to-come with a serious expression on his face, while the assistant gunner, Corporal Eduard Born, stuck his somewhat feminine features out of the loader’s hatch on the side of the turret. They all enjoyed the warm but much more pleasant air outside of their “tin can” while the gunner, PFC Theo Ludwig, and the driver, Sergeant Hans Münster, had already disappeared deep into the belly of the steel beast. As usual, Sergeant Münster was asleep.
Engelmann looked to the l
eft and right with mixed feelings. First he saw his platoon’s four other tanks to his left, whose occupants were waiting for the attack order, just as tense as he was. The 3rd Platoon, also equipped with several Panzer IV, was to his right.
Well, at least that’s something, the lieutenant thought because they had not always had so many of that type of panzer at their disposal – there had been times when there had not even been enough for one complete platoon. Unfortunately the Wehrmacht did not have sufficient resources to provide the type IV panzers everywhere they were needed: Therefore the 2nd Platoon and the company HQ had to make do with the much smaller, lighter and less powerful Panzer III, and then there was even a light platoon that had to report with nothing but Panzer II’s that had already been obsolete in 1939. It was the same situation throughout the whole battalion and even the whole regiment: The ”IV’s” made up no more than one third of all tanks. Engelmann sighed. He felt sorry for the poor slobs who had to show up here in a Panzer II, and he thanked God that he had been assigned to a Panzer IV platoon, though the Russian T-34’s, those incredibly tough beasts with a huge main gun, were superior to even Panzer IV’s . All one could do in a Panzer II was to pray when facing such an opponent.
Another indication, Engelmann thought and felt queasy. Each month the number of the superior Russian tanks grew, while the German Army had to make tin cans like the Czech Tank 38(t) functional again to be able to at least motorize all units sufficiently. He did not need to read von Witzleben’s appeal to the troops to understand how essential this operation was. The mystique of the German Army’s invincibility had already dissipated in the Russians’ defensive fire in 1941 when the Wehrmacht had stormed Moscow, and the allies of the Reich had wavered. The Wehrmacht needed this victory because now, in the third year of the war, the Russians had finally activated their gigantic war industry and were about to produce more tanks, airplanes, and artillery in one month than the German Reich did in a whole year. To that, one could add the menacing invasion in the West that already hung over Germany like the Sword of Damocles. A second land-based front line would bring about the downfall of the German Army. Engelmann was certain of that.