Global Conflict

by Tom Zola

  The racket breached into Engelmann’s panzer as a dull background noise, wooing the tankers with ice-cold fingers. Carefully – very carefully - Engelmann stretched out upwards to the lids of his cupola. There were circular, quite narrow vision blocks, through which he could get a panoramic view of what was going on now. He saw the Tiger in front of his tank, its main gun aligned on the tanks of 12th Company. Engelmann got the impression that one track of the Tiger was already torn to pieces from all the bombardment by Panzer IIIs and IVs, but he couldn’t be sure.

  He also saw Soviet paratroopers emerge from the grass near the 12th and hurl grenades at the tanks. One Panzer III spotted the infantrymen and turned. It already had the Russians right in front of the barrel of its hull machine gun. But it didn't shoot, instead it accelerated and buried the startled men under its chassis weighing tons. The grinding tracks squeezed them into the ground and chopped them to fleshy mud. Since the supply situation was so dire, the Wehrmacht had issued the slogan "Rolling is better than shooting" to all tank men, and the German soldiers followed this gruesome order with grim insistence, which made meat pâté out of people.

  Suddenly Engelmann spotted that enemy's big gun. He recognized, almost invisible in the high grass, the long, flattened path the glider had ploughed into the vegetation during landing. At the end of that path the engineless plane rested – completely covered by the undergrowth – but Engelmann made out something metallic and shiny, between blades of grass and fern, that flashed in the setting sun.

  An AT-gun shield! went through his head. Again the Tiger shot from the woodland edge, and again it completely missed its target.

  "Thank God we've stayed right in front of the Tiger's barrel," Münster joked in an attempt at gallows humor. "Apparently we're safest there." Ludwig and Jahnke grinned, but Nitz stared at his commander with a tense face. The lieutenant had long forgotten the Tiger and found a much more rewarding target for Franzi’s 5-centimeter cannon.

  But what good did that do? They couldn't shoot without electronics.

  "Theo!" Engelmann hissed. "Nine o'clock, 250. Enemy AT-gun." Ludwig pulled himself up and looked outside, then he nodded.

  "What shall we do, Sepp?" he asked dejectedly. "Franzi's dead."

  Ludwig fired the coaxial machine gun instead, but the bullets burst and bounced off at the AT-gun's shield like hail. Unimpressed, the Russian gun crew kept shooting at German tanks. 12th Company took a massive beating. Even if the gunner of that captured Tiger wasn't exactly Deadeye Dick, the enemy Paratroopers and the anti-tank gun at the glider gave it hell. Six panzers had already been destroyed or severely damaged. Engelmann realized in this second that the entire battle was on a knife's edge. Back at the airfield, there was incredible turmoil. German grenadiers stormed the runways and hangars from two sides. They were about to throw the Russian paratroopers off the airbase. Tanks of Panzer Regiment 2 rattled into the middle of the chaos, giving the beleaguered Russians an additional kick in the ass. Meanwhile, half-track vehicles pushed their way towards the woods with their machine-guns blazing, then stopped at the forest edge and unloaded grenadier infantry. These stormed under covering fire into the undergrowth and busted the partisan's chops. The situation also improved among the panzer units ambushed by the paratroopers. Burgsdorff and his staff had reacted quickly and built a circular laager of the tanks – an iron defensive ring. From this position, they took the enemy infantry under crossfire and left it no chance. The Russians were swept away like grass under the strokes of a scythe.

  In the air, the fight continued unabated, but now far away. At Engelmann’s position, on the eastern flank of the battlefield, the Russians threatened to cement their positions. And the lieutenant was fully aware of the consequences: The airfield was again in German hands; all enemy paratroopers had been thrown back into the high grass of the plain. Russian artillery rounds then immediately fell on the runways again. The projectiles were accurately smashing the aircraft hangars and pelting the panzers of Panzer Regiment 2. Evidently, the paratroopers had artillery observers with them who were now passing target coordinates to the rear batteries.

  Engelmann bit his lower lip, then he made a decision.

  "Stay here and hold this position." That got him startled gazes from his crew, but Engelmann had no time for further explanations. He opened the lid of his hatch and climbed outside with a "Cover me!", then he immediately jumped off the turret and disappeared into the grass. A few meters behind him, Anna 2 lay motionless. Engelmann sprinted on, past some holes that AT-gun shells had dug. After all, the craters were small, so it couldn't be a big caliber. He pulled out his pistol, although he knew that if there were well-trained paratroopers nearby, he wouldn't stand a chance. They would kill him without hesitation.

  Engelmann kept running, the high grass blocking his sight. Razor-sharp, slender green fingers tried to grab him. The racket of the fighting sounded in different mechanical and organic voices.

  Only when he had reached Anna 2 did he realize that the tank hadn't just been out of action because of a shredded crawler track. It smelled of fire, and fine smoke fumes seeped from every crevice of the panzer. Gunthermann and his men must have burned to death inside.

  A dull bang echoed over the plain. Again the Tiger had shot, again he had not scored a hit. But at some point the gunner would learn – or at least be lucky. Engelmann had to hurry. Even the anti-tank gun was still firing rounds at the panzers of 12th Company. Its barks continued to echo across the grassland. In the distance, a great volume of small-arms fire was reverberating.

  Engelmann sneaked past the destroyed tank. About 15 meters beyond was Anna 3, where the artificial fog from the smoke launchers was slowly clearing. Apparently Klaus had recognized that the lieutenant was on his way to him, because he was keeping his panzer lying motionless.

  Suddenly Engelmann's nose picked up the biting stench of burning oil – and then something else. It was a sweet, almost pleasant scent. For a moment Engelmann gave in to the smell, absorbing the aroma. That treacly odor bewitched his senses ... it was the smell of burnt flesh. This realization abruptly hit him with the force of a thousand fists. He was struck by dizziness while his legs turned to pudding. He staggered and was in danger of falling. What he saw lost its color, and his field of vision narrowed. He only saw infinite blades of grass in front of him. Only the deep cough of the Tiger’s 88-millimeter cannon brought Engelmann back to reality, as if someone had poured a bucket of ice-cold water over his head. He shook himself. The smell had disappeared from his nose.

  Muzzle flashes twitched over the edge of the forest not far away from Engelmann's position. First he did not notice what the enemy was shooting at, then a projectile clanged against the sizzling Anna 2. But Ludwig was on his toes. He swung Franzi’s turret around to the woods and opened fire. The MG stroked the forest edge, and all enemy fire stopped. Then smoke grenades flew out of the open commander's hatch of Anna 3. Within seconds, the tank had disappeared under a white hood. Engelmann sprinted over to the artificial fog bell and climbed the hull of the panzer. At once Klaus opened the lid flaps of the cupola and looked out. The continuing roar of airplanes dominated the din of battle, even as the Russian AT-guns and the Tiger were still firing. Apparently, however, even that damned gun did not have an infinite supply of ammunition, so its crew had given up continuously firing at everything and anything and was now sparingly targeting shots, causing powerful sparks to splash over the steel of German tanks and, above all, inflicting damage every time they hit a tank’s track. The enemy fire was still concentrating on 12th Company, whose panzers were enduring bravely under the attacks while fighting off paratroopers, who attacked again and again out of nowhere. Even an Iron Gustav – yet another nickname for the Shturmowik – had gotten into the action, sweeping over the formation of German panzers and firing rockets at them. But the Russian steel bird, too, had had no luck.

  "Herr Leutnant?" Klaus looked at Engelmann with a grim expression.

  "Nine o'clock, around
300, enemy AT-gun at the glider. Kill it immediately!"

  Klaus stretched his body to the extreme, but he could not see anything. "I can't see it," he yelled.

  "You have to drive up! You'll recognize it if you’re next to my tin can."

  "Well, then, hold on, Lieutenant."

  Engelmann clung to the armor side-skirt around the turret while Klaus gave the order to pull away. Following Engelmann's direction, the tank first jerked and then drove on at half speed.

  "Prepare to fire!" Klaus shouted into his throat microphone. After a few seconds the At-gun position at the glider became visible, so at least it could be approximated. Engelmann's target directions helped. Klaus' gunner turned the turret accordingly, then fired. The shot shook the tank and almost threw Engelmann off, forcing him to hold on to the turret side-skirt with all his strength. A burning pain shot through his injured hand.

  He gritted his teeth and concentrated on keeping his balance. The glider flew apart in front of him, and the Russian gun remained silent, its mangled body revealed by the pressure-wave-flattened grass.

  Engelmann knocked appreciatively against the steel of the turret. Klaus grinned.

  "Klaus, you're the whole damned pride of the 9th, now that my Franzi's gone, too."

  "I thought so. I'm just glad you're still in one piece."

  "Stop licking my boots!" They both granted themselves a small moment of celebration that they were still alive.

  "Drive over to the commander of the 12th and see if Hauptmann Stollwerk needs your help. Looks like he could use it."

  "The only prize missing is that Tiger."

  Engelmann with a nod of his head indicated the sky, which was again controlled by German warplanes. The few remaining Russian aircrafts were in great distress.

  Klaus saluted casually, then he disappeared into his cupola. Engelmann got back on his feet again and set off back to his tank. From the corner of his eye, he saw how the Tiger suddenly swiveled its muzzle exactly to his position.

  Thank you, Lord, for finally aiming at us. Then at least we're safe! The thought actually brought a pinched grin to his face. But then new muzzle smoke shot from the cannon of the Tiger. Instinctively, Engelmann threw himself to the ground, while Anna 3 behind him burst into a thousand flying pieces, buzzing around. There was nothing left of Klaus' tank but a ripped-open and now burning chassis.

  With a cry strangled in his throat, Engelmann made an exclamation of horror as he pulled himself together and watched the steel behemoth at the edge of the forest through the tips of the grasses. The Tiger's armor was perforated by hits, however, it was simply no mean task to knock that beast out.

  North of Oryol, Soviet Union, June 4th, 1943

  The reconnaissance squadron was given a day off, after the mechanized forces of the Wehrmacht had pushed the Russians back a few kilometers farther north. The fronts were now facing each other at the hill of the one-horse-town Borilovo. Berning's unit would also move to the front in the evening hours to seal off the road to Oryol, east of Kamenka.

  Currently the men of 2nd Platoon were located in a lonely kolkhoz north of Oryol. In addition to the soldiers, there were even a few civilians who had been hit hardest by the war. They were homeless, had nothing to eat, and many were injured or sick. Infant wailing filled the air above the collective farm.

  "The drill for fighting side by side with a tank killer or assault gun must be familiar to all of you in theory, but in the past, I have all too often noticed that you have considerable practical knowledge gaps in this area." Staff Sergeant Pappendorf looked into the exhausted faces of his men, who had gathered in the barn of the farmhouse for unit training lessons.

  The soldiers stood lined up – sitting down on the ground was not allowed by platoon leader Pappendorf. He was at daggers drawn with anything that could give a soldier some rest.

  So they all stood there at ease, which meant that their feet were shoulder-width apart, their left foot slightly in front, and their arms hanging straight down.

  In front on the right was poor Berning. He felt a dull pain in his coccyx and an itching one in his feet. He definitely did not want to stand any longer, because he and the men had already spent the entire morning standing while cleaning their weapons. Normally this was done sitting down – even under Pappendorf – but the staff sergeant had forbidden his men to talk. Someone had disobeyed at some point and said something, so the whole platoon had to clean weapons standing up for five hours, then take their meager rations standing up, and now also endure these lessons standing up. Meanwhile the other platoons of the company lazed around, because in them both the soldiers and the NCOs were glad to be allowed a short respite after the hard fighting of the last days. Pappendorf was the only one who had no concept of breathing space. He knew only combat, training, and drill.

  "So what do you think," Pappendorf continued, striding up and down in front of his men with his arms folded behind his back. The staff sergeant's silver-colored combat aiguillette with the gold-plated shield at the shoulder, which represented the 10th time that he got that award, dangled beside the other medals on his uniform.

  Pappendorf finally stopped, slowly bobbing forwards and backwards, assessing his entire platoon. All the soldiers looked spic and span. What could be cleaned and sewn was immediately cleaned and sewn. This Pappendorf had made sure yesterday evening, when the squadron had finally been moved to this collective farm after 45 hours of fierce fighting, including the exhausting pursuit of retreating Russian forces. The other platoons had gone for a lie-down and still looked like miners today. Pappendorf, however, kept order in his platoon. And he had a very pedantic understanding of order.

  "So what do you think," he reiterated, "why did I schedule exactly this class for this evening?"

  "Because you hate us," Lenz threw in impertinently. In Pappendorf's eyes, young Private First Class Lenz was one good soldier – and sometimes he allowed good soldiers to actually take liberties with him. The staff sergeant turned up his nose at this statement, while some of the men chuckled tiredly. Berning didn't laugh. Berning was seething.

  Because you're a son of a bitch! he stormed in his mind. Because you're the greatest man-hating slave-driver of all time! Pure hate filled the sergeant's soul. His legs burned awfully. A deep exhaustion tried to knock him to the ground. Slowly he leaned forward and hoped to keep his flabby body a little longer at ease. His eyes almost closed, meanwhile nothing other than anger flooded his insides.

  "Not at all because I hate you," Pappendorf spoke slowly, emphasizing every single syllable. "I know I'm tough. But this epic struggle of two nations makes it a necessity. If you hate me for it, believe it or not, I can understand that. But one day you'll thank me. Maybe years after this war has ended, but one day you'll thank me."

  Pappendorf looked at his soldiers with little sympathy, and now he continued undiminished: "Well, why am I teaching you this? Who can tell me that?"

  "Because our kampfgruppe has two Sturmgeschütz battalions, and therefore it may happen that we have to fight together with them," emerged from PFC Lenz, quick like a shot.

  "Exactly! Marder 2, Panzerjäger 1, and Ferdinand are steely comrades, whom you may meet in the coming days on the battlefield – especially since one tank killer unit is currently at Kamenka, in readiness to move forward." Pappendorf nodded contentedly. "As the great Field Marshal Rommel always likes to say, there is nothing better for the soldier than good education. Following this slogan, I'll be with you for the next two and a half hours… "

  Oh, no, Berning thought. He had to resist an urge to just fall over.

  "...to discuss the theoretical basics of joint operations with a tank killer, and to check your willingness to learn outside at the sandbox, where we will go through different situations. I expect the highest concentration from everyone, because hardly anything is more dangerous than fighting in the immediate vicinity of a tracked vehicle without knowing how to behave. And believe me, comrades, the Wehrmacht can't afford to lose men bec
ause they got under the treads or clogged the barrel of a tank killer. Always remember the principle: Even a small limb can trigger an early detonation of an explosive round.

  If you survive any such stupidity – and I can only advise you not to survive it – the tank killer commander will kick you in the balls… "

  Pappendorf turned his head to the left, then to the right, and pressed his lips together into a narrow line.

  "…and then I'll breathe down your neck so bad that you’ll wish the shell's blast had blown your skulls off."

  Pappendorf let these words work on the men for a moment, while Berning’s eyelids became heavier and heavier. A fatiguing tiredness settled on the room and pressed against the soldiers from above like a cover made of concrete, but nobody dared to move.

  Berning went over and over in his mind that Pappendorf always had to pronounce such idiotic threats, and he tried to frighten away his tiredness, None of us intends to stuff scrap metal into our own tanks in battle!

  "I will also teach you how a tank killer or assault gun engages the enemy in battle, how they set up hillside positions, how they conduct a surprise fire, how they ... BERNING!"

  Pappendorf shouting his name scared the hell out of him. The pictures in his head evaporated, and the image of a quivering cardboard village materialized before his eyes.

  "What were you thinking loitering in my formation like a crooked Slav grandma? Attention!" Pappendorf spat out his words. Moist speckles showered the men in the front row.

  "Jawohl, Herr Unterfeldwebel!" Berning moaned and pushed his back straight, but Pappendorf still didn't seem satisfied. With a threatening look and loud steps, he approached the sergeant until their two nose-tips were only a centimeter apart.

  "Unteroffizier, I said attention!"

  Berning didn't know what Pappendorf wanted. He was shifting around his body.

  "Come on, Berning. Come on or I forget myself… "