by Tom Zola
He gulped. He did not want to admit it to himself, but somewhere deep down inside he already knew that they had lost. He could not even contemplate the consequences because he knew one thing for sure: A military defeat would mean the total downfall of the German Reich.
And then there was the bombing terror back home. Soldiers of his regiment were being sent home increasingly often on furlough because they had suffered deaths of family members who had been killed by bomber raids – and Engelmann’s own family didn’t exactly live in a small village, either.
The lieutenant hastily shook off these thoughts. There simply has still to be some hope left, he told himself, there has to be!
He heard some static in the tank’s radio. Nitz immediately disappeared into the belly of the tank.
“What is it?” Engelmann asked, feeling the subtle sense of excitement begin that he felt before every combat. “Has it started?”
The signal was transmitted in numbers, and so Nitz needed another moment to translate it into sentences that made sense, using the radio log he had spread out on his lap. Then he stuck his head out of the hatch again and replied, “No. The Russians have captured half of the engineer company directly in front of us.”
“Holy shit!“
“Now we should use the alley near the 10th because we don’t know how far they got clearing our area. Sequence: 1st Platoon takes the van, then 2nd Platoon, light platoon, company HQ, 3rd Platoon.”
“Near the 10th … ” Lieutenant Engelmann repeated, more to himself, “ ... near the 10th … ”, while disappearing into the turret of his tank Elfriede, where he had fastened his situation map to the wall. He stared at the territory it showed and the advance routes of the attack, sketched out in the map.
“Then we’ll have to move toward the west.”
“Would be better. It would be a shame if Elfriede were to hit a mine,” Münster pointed out.
“Yeah, for all of us.”
North of Ponyri, Soviet Union, May 3rd, 1943
Heeresgruppe Mitte – 75 kilometers north of Kursk
The remaining soldiers in Squad Berning were hunted down – by human beings and by bullets. Berning ran faster than he had ever run before in his life. He didn’t even think about trying to coordinate the rest of his reconnaissance patrol to dodge the enemy while fighting. The young men were just running for their lives while the Russian voices behind them got louder and louder. The sergeant’s head throbbed and bounced. His sight became narrower; all he saw were the trees and branches in front of him while the edges of his sight increasingly blurred into darkness. He wanted to get away from here, nothing else. He was not able anymore to think of fighting, or of his mission. All he could do was run.
At that moment Berning became aware of Bongartz on his right, how Bongartz, while sprinting, grasped his machine gun, that big, heavy hunk of metal, firmly, suddenly turned around and kissed the ground. At the next moment the MG 42 spit out twenty-five deadly messages per second with loud bangs. With short bursts of fire, Bongartz got rid of the advancing Russians, who jumped to the left and right for cover.
Berning was now running on empty. The air exploded from his lungs in short thrusts. His breathing raced like a locomotive, and the colors of the images in front of him faded more and more. He knew they had left wounded squad members behind when they had stormed off, but what was he supposed to do about it? He threw himself on the ground and quickly crawled behind a fallen tree trunk. Like a machine gun, he pulled air into his lungs and forced it out again. His sides hurt and he thought he tasted blood. Finally he risked a glance over the top of the trunk. He saw Bongartz jump up under heavy fire and leap with his MG behind a tree a few yards behind Berning, where he immediately pulled the second belt from his neck to reload the weapon. Berning could also see Private First Class Günther Schröder, whose legs were pulled out from under him at this very moment when several bullets pierced his body. A screaming face dug itself into the lead-covered soil. In the distance, Kolter lay on the ground ─ without moving ─ as did two other soldiers, but they rolled back and forth like insects that had been sliced through the middle. Even farther behind him he saw soldiers in brown uniforms and the wide, bowl-shaped helmets that were so common in the Red Army. But he also saw Bongartz pull the cocking-handle of his weapon, open the cover, and insert the belt, ready to throw himself into the hostile fire of combat again. Bongartz bared his teeth while he pushed down the top cover of his gun. Next to his position, clumps of dirt flew up into the air. Berning also recognized PFC Feitenhansel and a few others, who finally stopped running when they heard Bongartz’s “buzzsaw” start up again. Turning around, Feitenhansel fired one shot. Berning made up his mind. While Russian projectiles shaved off the treetops above his head, he finally realized that they could fight … had to fight! They could do it! All he had to do was his job as a squad leader.
“I’m down to twenty percent, Herr Unteroffizier!” Bongartz yelled and decreased his bursts of fire. “The rest of the ammo is up ahead!”
Berning got up and aimed his weapon. He saw the Russians – two hundred, three hundred yards ahead of him – pushing forward fast under the fire of their machine pistols and rifles. Now he had to lay down suppressive fire with his MG while there was still any ammunition left. Then dodge under the cover of fire; keep the Russians down with single fire bursts and clear out to the south – back to their own positions. That was the only chance they had. Holding on to the handle of his weapon tightly, Berning put his finger on the trigger. He took aim: A Soviet soldier stood there out in the open and reloaded his PPSh. Suddenly there was a loud bang, and Berning felt like someone had kicked him in the stomach. His hands dropped the weapon immediately. Then he collapsed behind the tree trunk. His abdomen felt really warm and he sensed a pleasant fluid surround his crotch and legs like a mother’s warm embrace. For a split second he surrendered to this pleasant sensation; then he suddenly realized that he had been hit. He could still hear that his own MG was suddenly quiet. Russian shouts danced in his head while he looked up at the treetops that were swaying lightly in the wind. Everything was green and getting darker.
Prokhorovka, Soviet Union, May 3rd, 1943
5th Guards Tank Army – 85 kilometers south of Kursk
Comrade Colonel General Nikolay Sidorenko frowned at the situation map that showed the whole Kursk salient. His adjutant had just added the last updates to it.
Sidorenko, in his mid-fifties, with short gray hair and stubbly cheeks, stood up and felt his stiff back. He rearranged his uniform cap that was sliding all over his head.
The latest developments indicated that he had been right after all – and at this moment in time Sidorenko hated being right. How often had he approached his superiors and pointed out the danger of the front-line projection in this section, which reached like a balcony into those parts of the country occupied by the fascists? But until a few weeks ago the high command had not understood that the salient had to be reinforced. Large formations were approaching but were just not here yet. Again Sidorenko looked at the map. He could guess what these damn fascists planned to do. Using two wedge-shaped routes of attack, they would advance from the north and south via Olkhovatka and Oboyan respectively, towards Kursk in order to surround and destroy at least three Soviet armies. A brief grin ran over his lips. Sooner or later these damned Nazis would suffocate on their own arrogance. Just because they had been successful in surrounding whole troop formations of the Red Army in 1941, that didn’t mean that the same trick would work again two years later. The brothers and sisters of the laborers’ movement had had painful experiences with the Germans – and they had learned from them. Had they really? Sidorenko added up all Russian units that were gathered in the salient and calculated the assumed forces of the Nazis in comparison. A balance of power of one to one was in the making in the salient, truly not enough for an attack if one wanted to follow classic military strategy, but Sidorenko was realistic enough to acknowledge that a German formation was su
perior to its Russian equivalent in terms of fighting capacity and strength. Radios in every vehicle plus two additional crew members per tank as well as better training of many German non-commissioned officers, were issues the Red Army had been tackling mainly by pure mass in the past. Sidorenko chuckled to himself. Would the fascists show up again in those ridiculous heaps called Panzer II, that even a spear-thrower could riddle with holes? Sure! Yet the Nazis often more than made up for their technical deficiencies by applying their better tactical methods; therefore in the end, all that counted on the side of the Red Army were the numbers, and there was one thing Sidorenko knew for sure: What could a German Reich that was at war with over twenty different nations simultaneously on several front lines launch, against the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics with its almost 200 000 000 inhabitants, its nearly inexhaustible resources and fossil fuels, and its gigantic industrial facilities? It was obvious that the Soviet Union – and therefore socialism – would be victorious over the fascists in the end. The only question was how much blood and steel that victory would cost.
Here, in the salient of Kursk, things looked rather different though. The impending battle could end with a defeat even though a victory would neither serve the Nazis nor change anything in the overall picture. Still, the situation was dangerous for Sidorenko. So he swore to himself in that instant to confront these hoodlums, murderers and oppressors, who considered themselves so very superior, right here – in Kursk, no matter how much blood it would cost. He made himself a mental note to talk to Konev as soon as possible. Konev had been made the commander of the Steppe Front two weeks ago when the officers of the Stavka finally realized the impending attack of the Nazis. Sidorenko reached for his glass, which stood next to the map on the table, and washed a mouthful of Merlot from Moldavia down his throat. Let the whole nation drown in vodka – for Sidorenko there had always been only one drink: red wine. Suddenly there was a knock on the door and a young officer, his adjutant, came back into the room, followed by several German soldiers, all officers and non-commissioned officers. Of course they had been disarmed, had hangdog faces, and wore the uniforms of the engineer troop – as the black piping around the epaulets told Sidorenko.
“Tovaritsh Nikolay Sergejevitsh, mi podobrali eti nyemtzi w Ostrov,“ the officer informed him. We picked up these Germans ahead of Ostrov.
“Da,” was Sidorenko’s only answer. Then he nodded gravely and motioned his adjutant to step aside. He quickly pulled out his pistol and shot the sergeant on the left in the head so that bloody blobs splattered out of his skull, and his limp body immediately collapsed onto the floor. The other Germans froze in terror and stared at Sidorenko with open mouths. Even the adjutant at the back was petrified in light of his superior’s methods. The latter now grabbed the situation map and threw it at the fascists’ feet.
“Mark the German staging areas for the attack!” he said in tolerable German.
Wide-eyed, the Germans stared at the map; then their eyes lingered on Sidorenko’s face again. The Nazis hesitated – for just one second – one second too long! Sidorenko lifted his pistol and shot two bullets into the chest of the NCO in the middle. Like scalded cats, the two remaining Germans threw themselves on the floor and started to mark the Wehrmacht positions.
East of Stroitel’, Soviet Union, May 3rd, 1943
Heeresgruppe Süd – 102 kilometers south of Kursk
Waiting – this never-ending waiting before the attack is the worst part of any war. Many people don’t even know that a war consists mainly of waiting, not of combat. The soldiers wait for food, they wait for the next training segment, or they wait for the order to march off. And only very rarely, between the time in the rear echelon, between training, furlough, and the eternal sitting it out in their positions up front, do the soldiers literally wait for combat. And that is the worst kind of waiting there is because while you wait, you still feel safe yet you know that in a very short time your life will be in danger. Therefore this waiting is even worse than the battle itself because in combat, despite all its cruelties, blood, and death, a soldier is so charged up that he can no longer think about his actions but will simply act. If he gets killed in that state of mind, he at least no longer has the chance to ponder his miserable situation because he’s too busy fighting. During the waiting phase, however, when all orders have been given, when every soldier knows his place in the upcoming battle, and only the right time for the attack has to arrive, he has way too much time to think about his situation, the war and everything else. Then you suddenly ask yourself why people have to shoot at each other and cause each other great suffering anyway when everyone could just live and let live. And then the question will come up as to why you have to battle other human beings who may not want this war and who don’t want to lose their lives either. Then you ask yourself why the majority of human beings fight wars that the people really do not want at all, and you ask yourself what invisible powers make people who only want to live in peace, attack each other.
Such thoughts also flashed through Engelmann’s mind while he was staring out of the hatch of his tank at the area ahead, waiting for the order to attack that just did not come.
In the end the lieutenant crawled back into the belly of his tank to check on his men. Of course Münster was sleeping as always while Nitz was busy writing a letter to his brother-in-law. Born, one of the smartest soldiers Engelmann had ever met, used the light that fell through the open hatch of the tank to read a book with the title The War of the Worlds.
Aliens who attack earthlings? Engelmann, who had read the text on the back cover before, wondered. What crap! As if we didn’t have enough problems with our own species!
Suddenly a loud whistling cut through the sound of running engines and calmly chatting soldiers. At first Engelmann noticed the noise subconsciously while thinking about Martians with tentacles. Much too late he realized the danger of the situation; by the time he did, there was a loud bang, and dirt and branches erupted all the way up to the treetops in the woods behind his panzer.
“Scheisse! Top down!” he yelled into his tank. Then he closed the commander’s hatch himself. “Top down, dammit!” he moaned again. Finally all hatches were battened down.
Behind, in front of, and next to Engelmann’s panzer, the soil was torn out of the ground and blasted up into the air. Big chunks of dirt and rocks rained down on the tank while Engelmann and his crew listened to the orchestra of death. As long as they stayed in their tin can, they were relatively safe unless the artillery managed to land a direct hit, but then that would be bad luck. Outside there were screams that only penetrated the thick skin of the tank as dull sounds.
“It’s not a coincidence that the artillery is targeting our deployment area!“ Engelmann yelled, barely managing to drown out the noise. Outside new eruptions tore fresh craters into the ground. A tree cracked under the ongoing fire and toppled over. Its crown landed right on a Panzer II but the driver swiftly stepped on the gas and pulled his vehicle out from under the branches.
“They know exactly where we are!” Nitz declared with resignation in his voice. “There goes our element of surprise!”
North of Ponyri, Soviet Union, May 3rd, 1943
Heeresgruppe Mitte – 75 kilometers north of Kursk
When Berning regained consciousness, all he could see was the ground that seemed to rush past him. It took him several moments to comprehend that he was tossed over the shoulders of somebody, who wasn’t just carrying him but also running with him. Berning distinctly heard the man’s gasping; he could hear the other man’s lungs breathe in and out in quick bursts. The man’s breathing was fast, it was racing as if it wanted to pass the man himself. When Berning was able to think clearly again and slowly started to realize what had happened and what had gotten him into this situation, the first thing on his mind was relief about the fact that the man who had thrown him across both shoulders like a sack of potatoes and whose back and legs were the only thing Berning could see, was wear
ing a field-gray and not a brown uniform. Then Berning listened, but apart from the man’s quick steps and the high-decibel breathing he couldn’t hear a thing – above all no shots and no loud Russian orders.
The pain returned slowly at first but then it hammered itself deep into Berning’s physical sensations. His right thigh was burning as if someone had poured acid on it, and his uniform pants were soaking wet. He gritted his teeth but he was close to crying. Then he also started to feel a sharp pain in his shin. He stretched his neck out as far as it would go, and out of the corner of his eye he could make out that the soldier wasn’t only carrying him but also an MG 42 that was now sandwiched between the soldier’s shoulders and Berning’s shin, hitting it with every step.
“Bongartz?” Berning asked in a strained voice.
The exertion almost took Bongartz’s breath away, and now he had to pay the price for running with his machine gun and his squad leader on his back. As good a runner as he was, he had reached his limits. He slowed down his steps and his breathing became louder. Each time he exhaled, one could hear a long gasp from the depths of his lungs.