Global Conflict

by Tom Zola

  Meanwhile, Combat Formation Sieckenius had been tasked with preventing the further advance of the 7th Soviet Army in the south.

  If Kharkov were to fall to the Russians, there was only one option left for von Manstein: he would then have to withdraw the Southern Army Group back behind the Dnieper, before the Russians could quickly break through to the river and encircle entire German armies.

  Engelmann would do everything in his power to prevent this. The loss of Kharkov would mean the loss of the entire region. Then Belgorod, Prokhorovka, and Kursk would also have to be abandoned. In that case, all of Operation Citadel would have been in vain. So much blood and steel with which Kursk's conquest had been bought would have been counted for nothing. No! Engelmann had to think of the good men who had fallen there. Born, Laschke, many others. It shouldn't have been for nothing! If they didn't stop the Russians here, they would lose everything down to the Dnieper, and the Soviets would be much closer to home again. Such thoughts put a real sting in Engelmann's guts. He knew what the stakes were, and the Wehrmacht had put everything it got into this. Now von Manstein's backhand blow was a win; but with that kind of victory, the Soviets could only be stopped – no war could be won that way. Time worked in favor of the brute economy of Ivan, which in a single month produced as many tanks as the Germans in a year; time was clearly against the Reich. Added to this were the immense amounts of vehicles, weapons, and equipment provided by the Western Allies' Lend-Lease program, the addition of which to the Russian clout could not be overestimated.

  Therefore, a thorough and savage beating had to be administered. If the Russians were bled to death in German defensive fire, Stalin might be willing to sit at the negotiating table at some point. But until that was the case, a lot of blood would have to be shed and a lot of steel would have to be scorched.

  Engelmann looked around in all directions. Everywhere, the battlefield was now littered with death and destruction. Once again the Russians had suffered losses, in tanks alone, at a ratio of one to five.

  It's possible, he encouraged himself. At least if the Western powers stay still. Engelmann sighed. Everything was on a razor's edge. He looked over to his tank with the codename Anna 2, which had taken position 30 meters from him. Its commander, Sergeant Hagen Gunthermann, opened the two flaps of his hatch and finally stuck his head out of the turret. The side skirt of his panzer was holed like a Swiss cheese. Gunthermann looked over at Engelmann and with a questioning expression, tapped against the earphones of his headset. Engelmann gestured to the sergeant that his radio had failed. He nodded in understanding.

  In the background, the German forces reorganized themselves. The crew of Anna 2 had climbed out of their panzer and retightened the track, which had miraculously not been damaged. 1,000 meters farther to the east, the heavy battalion of the combat formation was on its way and apparently already formed up for further deployment. Mighty Panther and Tiger tanks took advantageous firing positions and dug in, while infantry forces advanced from the rear to secure the German tanks that had been left behind. Engelmann let himself fall back, landing clumsily in his seat. His injured hand burned and pulsated. It was thickly swollen, like a fire jellyfish. Moreover, the sweat poured down his face and soaked his uniform. The lieutenant felt the tiredness press against his eyes, snatching away the slightest desire for action from him. He looked around in his tank, into the exhausted eyes of his crew as far as he could see them. Nitz had a laceration on his forehead, but it didn't bleed much. Münster seemed to have fallen asleep with his eyes open, while Jahnke was counting the remaining main-gun rounds. Ludwig was observing the perimeter through his optics. They all seemed limp and tired. Days of fighting had consumed them. But once again, they had merely held up against a vanguard here, while the overall Russian attack continued unabated. Franzi was also very haggard. From the outside, the Panzer III looked as if it had been banged in front with a wrecking ball. One of the machine guns was broken, the radio damaged, and the steely skin cracked in a thousand places.

  Suddenly, someone knocked on the commander's hatch. Engelmann heard a very dull "Herr Leutnant?" It visibly cost him to move, but then he stretched himself up and looked into the face of a lance corporal from Anna 2.

  "Herr Leutnant," the man started his report. "Orders from the regiment: We bypass the sunflower field to the right and follow the ridge to take enemy forces in the flank at Hill 201.4. We're supposed to leave in 15 minutes. 10th Company takes the lead this time, we're to secure our regiment's six."

  "Got it," Engelmann mumbled. "So we will still be in existence tonight?"

  The lance corporal nodded.

  "Thank you." The lieutenant disappeared into his tank. So things would go right on. That was probably the correct course of action, but already everyone was at their limit, longing for a break. Engelmann looked at expectant faces.

  "We're moving on," he whispered. His men nodded.

  Naryshkino, Soviet Union, June 1st, 1943

  Russian 76-millimeter divisional gun shells struck the center of the settlement with a great din. The main street was torn up again and again – rock and dirt flew all over. Each detonation brought with it vibrations, and these vibrations shook the ruins left by the war at Naryshkino. The Germans called those 76-millimeter guns Ratsch Bumms because of the two sounds it made during firing; first one hears a jarring raaatsch, followed by a boom when the shell explodes.

  Sergeant Franz Berning from Austria pressed himself against the wall underneath a shattered window and squinted his eyes half-closed. Outside the room he was hiding in, Russian artillery shells threw up dust and dirt like earthy cascades. Berning pressed his stahlhelm tighter against his skull with both hands. In the foreground, the impacts conjured up a coat of dry fog that covered the entire city center. Again and again, the Russian artillery hammered into the settlement of Naryshkino. The men of 2nd Platoon clung to the walls of the shaking buildings. Hell-hot metal fragments hissed around, clapping against the outer walls of the houses. Glowing shrapnel chirped through the air, piercing the concrete. Screams of death's distress sounded. In Naryshkino, hell itself had opened its gates and poured out the embers from burning boilers over the city. The air pressure squeezed the soldiers hiding in the ruins against the walls, like insects. Some men were close to madness. With their eyes forcefully closed, as if the lids alone could shield them from all the cruelty of the war, and their hands pressed against their ears, they huddled together, enduring the gruesome game.

  Berning's breathing went faster and faster. This was not the usual morning blessing from Ivan. He knew that the enemy artillery was merely preparing an attack of tanks and soldiers, and he also knew what to expect. Trembling, he forced himself to look out over the windowsill. A gigantic cloud of dust blocked his view.

  The sergeant had taken up position with his squad on the ground floor of a destroyed shop. To the right of him, under the other window, Hege sat with his machine gun and Senior Lance Corporal Weiss, whom Berning had made his second fireteam leader and, as it were, served as the second gunner of the MG 42 too. The rest of the squad was scattered over the other windows, doors, and breaches in the building created by the fighting – the remaining division formations had been combined into two reinforced regiments, which was why it had been possible to have nearly all sub-units regain the required strength once more. Thus Berning had a full squad at his command again. And here they were, bearing the enemy artillery fire. Again a salvo of shells slammed into the city, but the fire fell too short to be dangerous to the Germans.

  North of Kursk, even after the success of the Citadel operation, the Red Army had moved on to numerous counterattacks, which threatened to expand into a genuine offensive. The enemy advanced north and south of Oryol in two wedge-formed attack patterns, and had achieved several deep breaches through the German lines. Both attack movements together formed – seen on a map – a slight arc, which ends both pointed south. To the south of Oryol, the 3rd, 27th, and 53rd Soviet Armies stormed past this city.
Von Manstein figured that their intention was to turn south behind Oryol and free the surrounded troops in the pocket of the former Kursk salient. Just like Kharkov, this would have catastrophic consequences for the Wehrmacht in the Oryol region. Here, too, was the omnipresent danger of cutting off those weak German blocking forces on the narrow strip of land from Olkhovatka to Belgorod, which was bordered on both sides by the Russian front line, and by the Wehrmacht troops in the north.

  North of Oryol, however, was the real danger threatening this section of the front: well-trained and well-equipped Red Army forces joined the attack; the 4th Guards Army, the 11th Soviet Army, and the 11th Tank Army. At first the German High Command had thought that this attack movement would also circumvent the city on its left and pass to the north, but the day before yesterday, the Russians turned sharply to the south and were now standing in front of Naryshkino, which was only 20 kilometers west of Oryol itself. Thus the encirclement of Oryol hung as a threatening sword of Damocles over the German defender's heads. Both sides knew the importance of the city: Oryol had served the Wehrmacht as a logistics center since its occupation and was generally regarded as the last foot in the door to Moscow. If the city was lost, the Russians wouldn't give it back. Then the road to Moscow would probably be blocked for the rest of the war. No rosy prospects, so Oryol had to be held at all costs. While von Manstein and von Witzleben had agreed to give up Kharkov in a dire emergency, both shared the opinion that they would defend Oryol to the last drop of blood. The only bright spot were the reinforcements on the way. In about two weeks, the 15th Panzer Division would reach the Oryol theater. This division consisted of well-trained and – much more important – veteran tankers from Africa. But two weeks was a long time; the Germans had to keep this front sector of all, even if Kampfgruppe Becker – pulled together from depleted units of the original Citadel attack forces – had been continuously in battle. In the area north of Oryol, too, the Russians had, on the whole, obliterated von Manstein's successes in the first half of the year. Once again, the front line had moved a long way away from Tula.

  One more time, Berning dared to look over the windowsill. A dense grey wall had built up in front of the position of his 2nd Squad. There was nothing more to see from the main road, it was so hazy thanks to the dust. More Russian shells thundered into the settlement, then the enemy stopped the artillery fire. The roar of the explosions ebbed away, but for a few more seconds, rocks and earth trickled to the ground. Then a deceptive calm crept onto the scene. One of Berning's soldiers coughed, and somewhere far away, shots were fired. The sergeant closed his eyes, listening into the dusty fog. His heart beat strongly, and sweat bathed his face. June 1st was another very hot day, but not even the sun penetrated the cover of dust and dirt that Naryshkino was now under. Suddenly Berning heard a sound that made every infantryman afraid: the squeaking of tank treads suddenly filled the air. Berning took cover under the window again and clasped his K98k carbine even tighter.

  Oh no! Two words that ruled his mind.

  "Russian tank!" whispered one Landser.

  "T-34, two of them bastards plus infantry, 3rd Squad reports!" hissed another one.

  "What is it?" Hege asked in a hoarse voice. He did not hear very well since Kursk.

  "Two T-34!" Weiss nearly screamed in his ear.

  Berning nodded. So they would stay here in position and wait until the enemy had passed. They really couldn't do anything against tanks. They only had rifles, a few hand grenades, and one machine gun.

  Suddenly Staff Sergeant Pappendorf was standing in the house entrance with a fully packed bag. He marched purposefully towards Berning, squatting next to him. He put the bag in front of him on the floor.

  "Unteroffizier Berning!" Pappendorf hissed.

  "Yes, Sir?"

  "Unteroffizier Berning! Now you can prove what you're made of!" Berning stared at his platoon leader with his mouth open. He opened the bag, and satchel charges – big explosive charges, of several grenades tied together – came to light.

  "1st Squad made these," Pappendorf commented, grinning gloatingly, "just for you."

  Berning's eyes grew wide, but Pappendorf continued unabated: "Your mission, Unteroffizier! Form a tank killer team, advance under MG cover fire towards the enemy tanks, and destroy enemy tanks on the road. Repeat!"

  Berning screwed up his face. He could not imagine that he should go out there, armed only with satchel charges, to destroy enemy tanks that were probably accompanied by infantry. He looked at Pappendorf like a dog who didn't want to perform his trick. The senior NCO’s face darkened… Pappendorf was dead serious.

  "I'm supposed to form a tank killer team and destroy tanks in the street," Berning stammered.

  "Herr Unterfeldwebel," Pappendorf added.

  "Herr Unterfeldwebel."

  "Well then, let's go!"

  Hesitantly, Berning grabbed the bag, then looked up.

  "Barth, Schapnick! To me!" he ordered. Pappendorf raised one eyebrow. From different rooms of the building, two young soldiers were trooping in; both not yet 20 years old, and both with little service time on their backs. They had just been transferred from the replacement battalion to the Schnelle Abteilung 253.

  "Taking the two most inexperienced soldiers in the squad with you," Pappendorf remarked. "Good move, Unteroffizier, good move." The staff sergeant nodded with a mocking look. Uncertain, Berning looked up to his platoon commander, but then he pressed his lips together as anger flooded his mind.

  I don't care what this Piefke is thinking! Ignoring Pappendorf's gaze, Berning turned to the summoned soldiers -– this meant that Pappendorf's behavior did not go unnoticed by Berning at all, rather he desperately tried to ignore it.

  Outside, the squeaking of crawler tracks became louder, the rattling of the Russian tanks clearer. Berning took another look over the windowsill. Still there was nothing to see but a wall of fog, but slowly -– very slowly – the dust vanished. Berning had to hurry.

  "Notice!" he told his tank killer team. "You two take two satchel charges each. Rifles stay here! I'll go first, you'll be right on my heels. Understand?"

  "Understood," the answer came out like of one throat.

  "Herr Unteroffizier," Pappendorf added immediately.

  "Herr Unteroffizier," the two soldiers repeated.

  Can't this guy just shut the fuck up? Berning got over it. He almost said something. Almost! Then he remembered his mission.

  "Follow me!" he breathed. He jumped up and climbed over the windowsill.

  *

  Pappendorf looked after Berning's sad tank killer team as they disappeared into the dusty mist.

  "Well, in your place, I would have assigned my MG to deliver some suppressive fire," he muttered to himself and shook his head.

  Hege looked at his platoon leader with an insecure expression. "Should I lay down suppressive fire, Herr Unterfeldwebel?" he finally asked, and pressed his machine gun's buttstock into his shoulder. He grinned helplessly and insecurely, with his bad teeth visible.

  "Not at all," was Pappendorf's short answer. "How else is he gonna learn?"

  Hege’s face still had a big question mark in it. He said, "What's that, Sir?"

  "How else is he going to learna!"

  "He's a good turn?"

  "LEARN! HE!"

  "Who?"

  "Berning!"

  "I see ... shall I shoot or not, Sir?"

  "For the Lord's sake! No!

  *

  Berning quickly sprinted across the street and pressed himself against the house wall on the other side. The squeaking of the tank tracks was now quite loud, so the enemy combat vehicles were close. Berning felt the road vibrate under the steel colossus. Fear and despair rose in him.

  His two soldiers were each ready with a satchel charge. They looked with serious expressions into the thinning dust cape, which was still fogging the city center. Russian calls echoed out of the mist.

  "Follow me," Berning spoke under his breath. "We push along t
he wall into the alcove in front of that post office over there. Then we'll wait, let ourselves be bypassed, and then we'll strike." His soldiers nodded, then the sergeant dashed off. Always hugging the wall, he ran along the partially-torn building facades until he reached the post office, a small building with a red brick roof. There was a slight indentation, into which a small car could fit. Berning and his two soldiers pressed their bodies against the house wall and kept quiet. The non-commissioned officer could clearly hear his breathing, which was like background music to all the other sounds. The tracks of the enemy tanks rattled like a medieval drawbridge, getting closer and closer. The road trembled and the buildings shook under the rumble. Suddenly an olive steel monster – a T-34 – broke out of the dusty curtain like a primeval ogre and clatteringly passed the post office. With his eyes wide open, Berning looked after the steel colossus as it rolled farther up the road. He'd never been this close to an enemy tank before!

  "Now!" Berning whispered, and hit Schapnick against the helmet. He nodded while a "Jawohl, Herr Unteroffizier" fell from his lips, then he ran out. His right hand tore off one safety cap, and he tugged the pull cord out of the handle.

  The private first class stormed the road, rushing towards the tank. Suddenly there was a gunshot. The projectile blew Schapnick's helmet away and drilled itself into his head, where it caused irreparable damage by smashing the zygomatic bone and finally burst from his face between the nose and upper lip. Schapnick's legs gave way, then his skull hit the cobblestone ground where he remained motionless. Immediately, hectic Russian cries echoed loudly in the street.

  Berning pressed himself as hard as he could against the wall of the house and grabbed his rifle with all his might. Even Barth stared spellbound at the dead Schapnick.