Global Conflict

by Tom Zola

  "Scheisse!" Berning puffed out. It did not remain a secret to him that the owners of the Russian voices approached rapidly. The sergeant yanked up his rifle and aimed at the corner of the alcove, but his hands shook badly. Surely there was a whole Soviet platoon on the road! Or even a company! With the tanks, it felt like an express train was thundering past.

  "Shall I try it, Sir?" Barth asked with a brave voice.

  "No," Berning whispered, slowly leaning towards the corner behind which dozens of Russians might be lurking.

  "We're fucked," he concluded, jittering.

  Suddenly, an MG-42 stuttered from the other side of the road. Pappendorf's men had opened fire! The fog had become very light, Berning could see flashes of muzzle through the dust from the positions of his unit. Sparks of fire hurtled across the road, cracking the cobblestone and wringing brick and plaster splinters from the buildings. The Russian voices were suddenly loud and panicky. Enemy weapons returned fire. Instantly, the most forward tank stopped and pointed its main gun at the buildings in which squads from the 2nd Platoon had entrenched themselves. Berning bit his lower lip when one of the MGs of the tank began to bark. The bullets crashed into the positions of his comrades. Screams and wildly-roared orders filled the air. Then the T-34 fired its main weapon. The explosive shell penetrated the building's wall, shaking it terribly. Concrete chunks of all sizes rained onto the road.

  "We must help them," Barth groaned, and grabbed his satchel charge. Again, the tank shot his main gun into the building, the left half of which collapsed completely.

  Berning fought with himself. He could hear his comrades screaming desperately, while several German machine guns were still firing on the road. Horrible, human screeching sounds from the Russian position suggested that they were also suffering losses.

  "We have to help them, Sir," Barth insisted. Berning dug his incisors into the flesh of his lower lip - he hesitated a moment – then struck Barth on the shoulder. The private jumped up and sprinted off. Berning hurried after him. The two German soldiers ran into the street as fast as their legs could carry them. Russian fire chased after them. The cobblestone next to Berning's feet burst high. Fine splinters sprayed into his face. He held his left arm in front of his eyes and kept running. All he saw in front of him were Barth's boots pounding across the street.

  Finally they reached the tank. Berning could hear the Russian orders at his back. He imagined they called: "Shoot the sergeant! Shoot the sergeant!" He believed at that moment that all the shots of this war were for him alone. His breathing had also increased to infinity. His pulse was pounding in his throat. His stahlhelm slipped back and forth on his head. But he just ran on. Nothing else controlled his body, disturbing thoughts troubled his mind no more.

  Barth pulled the detonator of his satchel charge and hurled it onto the tank, right at the main gun barrel. The bundle of grenades bounced off the top of the hull, jumped up again, and came to rest exactly between the turret and the hull. Barth and Berning kept running. Bullets from both sides buzzed through the air, tearing scars into the buildings; but the two Germans on their tank destroyer mission were lucky. The moment they reached the positions of their platoon and climbed back into the building through a window, there was lightning behind them at the tank, and a loud bang echoed across the street. After that, the T-34 remained motionless. Externally it seemed unscathed, but it did not fire again or otherwise moved. The tank was destroyed, or at least its crew was.

  Berning once again pressed himself against the wall under "his" window and tried to control his breathing. Once more his squad took up the firefight with the Russians, but the enemy – shocked by the destruction of the T-34 – withdrew, shooting back, and finally disappeared from the sight of 2nd Platoon. The other Soviet tanks could be heard but not seen in the slowly-disappearing mist. They seemed to retreat too.

  Berning gasped and snorted as he lay underneath the window with his mouth open.

  "No casualties," Weiss reported immediately. "Ammunition at 80 percent."

  Berning just nodded and gestured to the senior lance corporal to pause for a moment. He first had to get his breathing back under control and choke off the emotions that flared up in him. Suddenly, however, Pappendorf stood in front of him.

  "Berning!" he bellowed. The non-commissioned officer jumped up to his feet immediately and waved both arms before straightening the helmet, which sat crooked on his head.

  "Yes ... Herr Unterfeldwebel?"

  "1st Platoon reports three more enemy tanks. Predestined for you! Grab some more satchel charges and brace yourself for your next tank destroyer mission!"

  Bern, Switzerland, June 2nd, 1943

  For half an hour, Thomas Taylor and Luise Roth lay silently next to each other in bed, enjoying each other's body heat and the cool air flowing into the room through the open window. Outside, the darkness shrouded the city of Bern in a dark cloak. Luise wouldn't be going home that night. She'd stay with Thomas, like almost every night.

  Since Luise's mother was dead and her father was stationed somewhere in England, she was in the unusual situation for a young woman of being able to do what she wanted with men. Nevertheless, her father would hardly like what she was currently doing in Switzerland.

  Thomas knew that; they had already talked about it. He was therefore truly glad that the old patriarch was not within reach. Thomas had to grin. What would that old Tommy think about his daughter jumping into bed with a German ten times a week? There was simply no stopping her on that point – she had gotten over her initial embarrassment faster than Thomas could blink. He sighed, then he lit a cigarette. Luise just closed her eyes in his arms, but Thomas couldn't think of sleep at the moment. Too many things were rattling through his head.

  What do you want me to do? That was the big question that hovered above all other thoughts. Thomas hadn't asked Luise about the invasion of Italy for days now, because he was too afraid she would get wind of his real intentions. Accordingly, poor Thomas had failed to submit his last report to the Abwehr, the Military Intelligence Service.

  What do you want me to do? So many doubts, so many feelings; and also his sense of duty gnawed at him, struggling for his attention.

  Thomas felt Luise's warm body clinging to his own. She was asleep – her chest rose and lowered evenly, her eyes closed and her face very peaceful.

  Thomas was in love – and contrary to what he had initially thought, this feeling had neither vanished after a short time nor was he able to fight it successfully. He could not get rid of his deep affection for Luise. As a magnet attracted metal, so she attracted him with an irresistible force he could do nothing about. But what was he supposed to do? His first dilemma was that he had an official mission here, and the information he gathered could save the Reich’s ass. On the other hand, he wondered what else he could get out of the British consulate's employee in the way of a tip, apart from the approximate attack date for the Allied takeover on Italy – which he had already gotten. From the outset, the hope of the Abwehr had rested on Luise's father; but, disappointingly, Taylor had learned that she had very little contact with him. And their relationship was also quite tense. So only her activity in the British consulate was left as a source, but she wasn't exactly a manager or some other important employee there.

  Thomas' second dilemma was the very foundation on which his relationship with Luise rested. His name was not Aaron Stern, and neither was he a Jew, but if Luise ever learned of his true identity, he would not know what to fear more: the Swiss police, or the girl's furious rage. She could be damn temperamental. Sometimes she was really fiery – not just in bed.

  Thomas seriously wondered if it might not be possible to live a life of lies and spend his days in Switzerland with Luise as Aaron Stern. But he, of course, knew that this was not possible. Activities in enemy territory always had to be of short duration, because at some point someone or something would expose him – even if it was only a stupid coincidence. No, that wasn't an option either.
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  Thomas sighed again. He pulled hard on his cigarette. Well, then? Do what? He had no choice but to let things go on and see what would happen. Maybe the eggheads of the Abwehr would pull him out soon. Maybe Luise would reveal some useful information after all. Only the future could tell.

  So wait, and ... well ... take care of Luise. Thomas flicked the cigarette butt out the window, then eyed her naked body for a moment.

  The things you do for your country!

  Mikoyanovka, Soviet Union, June 4th, 1943

  Engelmann had been lucky; his hand was not broken. Although the swollen wrist still throbbed painfully, he could still use his hand, could continue in his function as tank commander and company leader. Nonetheless, he had to move the book he was carrying into his healthy hand after a few seconds, as the bruise hurt too much.

  The sun of the late afternoon blessed the plains of Russia with glistening light and pleasant warmth, without which it was unbearably hot that day. The Russian attack, with which the enemy had tried to advance through the Kharkov area in the direction of the encircled Soviet units only to be halted by Kampfgruppe Sieckenius, had more or less stopped for two days now. After their success south of Mikojanovka, the Germans had even been able to achieve some deep breaches into the Soviet front line. Finally, however, they were pushed back by the Russians to the Mikoyanovka airfield again.

  At the moment, the Russians even stood on the well-paved road from Belgorod to Kharkov and blocked it. German supply convoys therefore had to take long detours in order to reach the front troops. The situation remained extremely dangerous for the Wehrmacht: Since yesterday, the airfield near Mikojanovka had been repeatedly under artillery fire from the enemy. Due to heroic efforts by the Luftwaffe ground personnel, bomb craters which had been blasted out of the runways were constantly patched up, and airplanes damaged by shrapnel repaired. Untiringly, the pilots took off again and again – often directly under artillery fire – as soon as their steel birds had been reloaded and fueled. Only supply shortages kept the planes on the ground from time to time.

  The Russians, however, were now less than two kilometers away from the airstrip. Any further advance by the enemy would result in the Luftwaffe having to give up this base immediately. Then fighter-wing Jagdgeschwader 52, as well as dive bomber-wing Sturzkampfgeschwader 2 "Immelmann" with its more than 140 airplanes, would have to move dozens of kilometers to the west – perhaps as far back as Poltava, where there was also a large air base, because the other, closer-in airfields of the region, near Kharkov or near Belgorod, were directly threatened by the enemy as well. In any case, the approach routes to the front would be significantly extended. The airfield near Mikojanovka was therefore an important piece of the mosaic in the fight for the Kharkov region.

  Apart from the exchange of artillery shells, it had remained quiet today; the Russians seemed to have taken a break. Engelmann had used the day to have his men carry out makeshift repairs to the panzers. Truly, they would actually need a tank factory to put their battered armored vehicles back into working order, but through improvisation and inventiveness, they were able to make sure that the panzers would be operational for yet another day of gruesome action. So they had done some work on the tracks and idler gears, refilled the ammunition loads and restocked supplies – if any were available - and repaired any minor damage. Münster – a mechanical virtuoso – had been struggling with Franzi’s right tread for half a day, but after he had disassembled and then remounted the track for the second time, patched some connectors and replaced a wheel, he had finally ensured that the Panzer III only pulled minimally to the right. Nitz had also been out scrounging all day and had been able to get himself a new radio – of a different design, but it worked. The new radio was now installed in the tank and wired in to the headsets of the driver, radio operator, and commander. The only thing that couldn't be replaced was the hull machine gun, which was ready for the scrap heap. It was really impossible to find a replacement gun these days. For example, the grenadier battalion of the combat formation, which provided ground security forces for the area around the airfield, did not even have a single machine gun at all. Each grenadier carried a K98k with 15 rounds of ammunition. That was it! No hand grenades, no radios, no anti-aircraft guns, no Pak. Improvisation and freeloading anything that could be fought with was the order of the day. After all, the reports from the south gave them hope: At Stalino, the Russians had proceeded as far as to the city limits, but the withdrawing German forces had delivered the enemy ferocious delaying fights in accordance with von Manstein's strategy of backhand blows, meaning they repeatedly launched counter-attacks that hit the Red troops where it really hurt. The Russians had to pay for the gain of 80 kilometers with severe losses – at the worst point, sometimes in the ratio of one to eleven. Letting the enemy come and then attack his flanks or rear echelon had proven itself after a few days of the Russian offensive: The Soviet Southern Front had bled to death on the German forces in the area, and was no longer capable of any further movement.

  But in Izium, at this hour, there was still fierce fighting for the Donets River crossings going on. Both banks had changed their owners countless times since the Russian attack had begun, but the Red Army had not yet succeeded in building permanent bridgeheads across the river. In this front sector, the 10th Panzer Division and 334th Infantry Division participated in the action; the two formations represented nearly half of the former Afrika Korps, which had always been distinguished by outstanding fighting strength. However, the German defense successes stood on shaky legs. Ivan was still strong at Izium, as at Oryol and Kharkov. If a breakthrough through the German lines was successful only in one of these sectors, and the enemy managed to reach the Dnieper, then von Manstein would be forced to withdraw all of Army Group South and Army Group Center back behind that very river. To stop the Russians, German defense efforts had to be successful not only at Izium, but everywhere.

  Engelmann sighed. The day was coming to an end. There was nothing left to do with his panzers. All three tanks were parked in a small forest 300 meters east of the runways, and fuel and ammunition were at 60 percent. Since the lieutenant was of the opinion that rest periods were just as important as maintenance and repair work, he had dismissed his men a few moments ago to "after-duty hours." While Münster almost collapsed in the cover hole under Franzi and ever since slept like a baby, Nitz, Ludwig, and Jahnke as well as some crew members of the other company tanks had left to pay a call on the Luftwaffe boys, who allegedly had vodka and cigarettes. At least, it was with that promise that a lieutenant of the Luftwaffe had invited the tankers to a celebration that evening. The reason for the celebration was probably the return of two Hungarian groups of pilots to the VIII Air Corps.

  Engelmann felt tired to death. He was also hungry, because the evening rations had been more than poor – Company Sergeant Major Kreisel had only brought a few slices of bread and jam for each soldier.

  Lieutenant Engelmann walked away from his company's area of responsibility. He trudged over the large open space that began at the end of the runways and finally reached a long stretch of forest, where he sat down in a hollow between two old pines. After days crammed into a confined space with four other men, after days of weary endeavor and cruel fighting, he wished for nothing more than to spend half an hour in solitude – half an hour without voices and without the smell of other people. In his hands, Engelmann held a blood-stained novel entitled "The World Set Free". Eduard Born had the book lying next to him when he was fatally hit. He had poured his lifeblood over it before he took his last breath. Engelmann wanted to try to get a new copy of it from Elly before Kreisel would send Born’s personal items to his family. The lieutenant did not want the boy’s parents and siblings to receive a bloody book from their lost son. Since Born’s death, Engelmann had carried the book with him, but understandably he hadn't been able to read it yet. He could also imagine many other books which he would rather deal with than such science fiction nonsense. As a confirm
ed lover of German literature, he was worried enough that he could hardly read during the war. On the one hand he didn't have the time, on the other hand he couldn't carry a library around with him.

  Somebody really needs to invent a small device to store and retrieve a thousand books, Engelmann mused. He imagined it would be like a digital clock: It needed changeable plates, each of which could display any letter by switching coils off and on. These plates would then have to be arranged in rows next to and below each other, in order to always be able to display the corresponding book page by clever recalling of the letters and words. The lieutenant loudly puffed air out of his lungs. However, that device had not been invented yet, and all he had left at the moment was the one blood-stained book he had in his hands – because his Bible was lying somewhere with the rest of his things at the troop impedimenta. So "The World Set Free" it was, although fantasy wasn't really his genre. Engelmann was more of a classicist – he liked Fontane and Goethe, but also Bennett and Hugo.

  The lieutenant pulled his pocket knife out of his pants pocket and carefully separated the book pages glued together by the blood. Finally he opened the first page. Despite the fact that everything was dipped in red, he could recognize the black letters well. He had just skimmed over the first chapter when suddenly there was a whistle in the air.

  Russian artillery shells! A blink of an eye later, fountains of dirt shot up behind the aircraft hangars.

  "Shit!" moaned Engelmann, and closed the book. His body – every fiber of it – resisted standing up and get moving.

  It's nothing, except a little Ratsch Bumm barking! The lieutenant pulled himself together and set off at the run while the alarm sirens went off over at the Luftwaffe compound. Engelmann watched countless people as small as ants from here push the Stukas and fighters out of the hangars. He hadn't gotten halfway back yet when the first pilots started their engines, taxied onto the runway in their planes, built up speed there, and took off only 100 meters away from Engelmann, so that they flew away just above his head. They quickly gained height.