by Tom Zola
"Drive, man!"
"Yes, sir."
With a jolt Franzi II set herself in motion and rolled out of the large barn, which had been her home for the last few days, and squeakily headed for the road leading from Mtsensk via Chern and Plavsk directly to Tula. The city was 110 kilometers away from Kampfgruppe Hoth's staging area.
The attack was preceded by a 24-hour bombardment by German artillery and the Luftwaffe. Numerous kolkhozes in enemy hands along the front line had been virtually leveled by the shelling and bombing. This was reported by reconnaissance patrols, which had tested the enemy lines all night long. Heavy, hours-long rainfall had made the terrain difficult, but also facilitated it for the scouts to advance unnoticed. If their reports were correct, then the Russians were on the run.
Slowly the tanks of 12th Company drove along the main road. Engelmann’s Franzi II guarded the rear; left of them, 11th Company pushed forward across wide plains. To the right, the area of responsibility of the regiment ended and that of the 15th Panzer Division began. This very formation sent forward a mixture of Panzer IVs, Tigers, and light infantry fighting vehicles, closely followed by panzergrenadiers.
Engelmann looked out of his commander's cupola. On both sides of the road, a wide-open space reigned over the land, reaching as far as the horizon. It had stopped raining, but the high humidity, which hung over the terrain like an invisible spider's web, was dragged along by the wind and blew around Engelmann's head in a pleasant way.
Already the sun fought its way through the clouds and transformed the climate into the well-known heat of the last weeks. The grass sizzled in the hellish sunshine, while the puddles collected at the roadside began to dry up.
Engelmann looked around. Perfect tank terrain. Individual kolkhozes broke up the otherwise flat land, which also lacked any obstacles. Narrow lanes mostly led off from the main road to the collective farms. But there were no farmers to be seen.
Engelmann spotted an old tractor at a large barn, its blue paint corroded by rust. The farmhouse next door, a wooden building with a weathered thatched roof, had been beaten up badly by past fighting. Fist-sized bullet holes pierced the facade, all the windows blown out. A few hundred meters farther to the northeast, 12th Company passed the lonely wreck of a T-34 that stood on the roadside. Miserable figures there witnessed the advance of the Germans as they set off in the opposite direction: A small column consisting of old men staggering under bundles, and women in headscarves carrying baskets.
*
Without encountering resistance, the regiment finally reached Mtsensk. Engelman recognized at the same time the thick smoke trails, which hung like a threatening sword over the place. Only then did the lieutenant see the first buildings devastated by the war. Flames blazed unhindered in the town center. Houses looked like a giant hole puncher had raped them. Roofs had collapsed, and whole buildings had been razed to the ground. Streets and alleys were plowed to pieces by German shells.
The regiment and the left flank of the "Africans" advanced on the broad front. Three armored reconnaissance vehicles, called Special Purpose Vehicle 222, were narrow, four-wheeled armored cars with a swivel-type turret and a two-centimeter cannon, broke out of the formation and revved their engines to a howl. They bravely advanced, formed the attack column's spearhead for now, and stormed into the village over the wide stone bridge leading over the Zusha River. Not a single shot was fired. A little later, the radio started to broadcast the voice of the leader of those vehicles.
"Southern foothills of Mtsensk are free of hostiles." Stollwerk passed on the report. "12th and 11th shall pass directly through the village, the rest of the regiment should bypass left. Assemble on the other side. We're keeping formation, everyone follow me!" Stollwerk’s commands rang through the ether with stoic composure.
The man can lead, Engelmann thought blissfully.
Minutes later, the panzers of 12th Company occupied the village. In the run-up to the event, a reconnaissance party of pioneers had checked the capacity of the bridges over the river, which was a slender branch of the Oka River. They had come to the conclusion that the old stone bridge could carry tanks without any problems.
When Franzi II plunged into the village, Engelmann's fingers instinctively cramped around the two turret lid flaps while he concentrated ferociously, trying to keep an eye on all the windows, all the breaches and all the ruins that passed by left and right – an impossible undertaking. Ludwig's foot also moved automatically onto the pedal which operated the coaxial machine gun. Urban terrain always made tank men nervous.
But in this case, the fear of enemy tank killer parties hiding in the rubble of the ruins proved to be unfounded. Apparently the Russians had left the village in a hurry when hell had broken over them. Shell craters that were meters-deep lined the roadsides. They were filled to the brim with dark, dirty water. Every now and then the tank gunners had to turn their panzer's cannon away from one side of the road as the combat vehicle dipped into a crater to avoid digging the muzzle into the ground.
Farther ahead, the street turned to the right and disappeared behind a corner house, whose perforated and unroofed gabled attic rose into the sky like a skeleton. It denied Engelmann a view of the rest of the street. Stollwerk gave the halt order. Lieutenant Engelmann leaned forward in his cupola as far as he could, but he couldn't see the reason for the stop.
Smoke impregnated the air, and fires flickered out of control in the ruins.
Engelmann finally observed Captain Stollwerk climbing out of his panzer and disappearing around the bend. After 30 seconds, he turned to Engelmann's field of vision and gesticulated wildly with his arms. Apparently he gave further commands to his crew, because just at that moment Stollwerk's tank began pulling back, while its turret was turning, clattering, until the main gun's muzzle was pointing full backwards. Stollwerk now held both hands in front of his chest and showed the palms of them to his driver, then he climbed up the hull. Finally the captain disappeared into the turret, closing the lid. By radio message moments later, Stollwerk explained the problem: "The road behind that bend is not passable due to weapons effect. Wait while we explore an alternative route."
With these words, Stollwerk unleashed his panzer. The driver pushed the gas pedal as far as it would go. The engine howled and propelled the monster rapidly forward, the main gun barrel facing back at the other German tanks. The panzer accelerated towards the corner house. With a violent crash, the tank dug itself into the building and tore away half the brickwork from the ground floor. Immediately the rest of it gave way. The whole building leaned to the left, then it paused for a moment, as if it was taking another last breath inside itself. A fraction of a second later, it collapsed like a house of cards. With a loud roar, which echoed far beyond the village and the plains, the building turned into a big mountain of rubble within a blink of an eye.
"Splendid!" rejoiced Münster, and clapped his hands approvingly. Ludwig grinned.
"That's actually not allowed," Nitz remarked with a suppressed voice.
"So what if it wasn’t?" Münster retorted as he grasped his control levers. Stollwerk's voice cracked out of the headphones at the same time: "Alternative route found. Move it!"
Immediately the other panzers of the company woke from their sleep, swung slightly to the right, and torturously climbed their way up the debris mountain that was a house just seconds ago. Tank after tank rolled over the former building and pressed the broken stones and wooden beams deeper and deeper into the ground. Finally the tracks of Franzi II reached the former corner house and began to dig themselves into its corpse. Creaking, the tank ate its way up the mountain of rubble. When Engelmann could finally see over the apex of it, he experienced another level of devastation caused by the German bombardment: beyond the bend, the road was lined with shot-up carts and automobiles. Dead horses whose fur were matted and covered with blood were lying on the roadside with their carcasses torn open. Their intestines poured out like fat, bright red worms onto the road, wh
ere they were now flattened by the crawler tracks of Stollwerk’s panzer. The thrust pressed all the blood and tissue into the part of the organs not caught by the tanks treads, which burst like squashed pimples. Bright blood sullied the side-skirts of the German panzers as they worked their way relentlessly up this road of death. The wood of the broken carts burst like matches under the weight of the tracks. The bodies of people and other animals full of splinters lay unnoticed in this part of the town. With ashen faces, the men, women, and children who covered the earth in grotesque poses looked as if they were asleep. And they did sleep, they slept forever.
"Serves them right," remarked Münster, who was closely observing the scenery through his eye slit.
Engelmann recognized a Red Army scout tank thrown to the side farther ahead. Two dead soldiers were lying in front of it. Their uniforms had turned to black ash threads, their skin to brittle coal. These men were burned to death.
The smell of fire went up Engelmann's nose. It became more intense, biting with every meter Franzi II drove on. Other scents mingled with the aggressive stench. Engelmann felt himself seized by a sweet, slightly decaying, stinking breath.
Immediately he let himself sink back into his chair and slammed the lid flaps shut. Pale as chalk, he struggled with his breathing.
"You all right, Sepp?" Nitz had thrown the lieutenant a worried look.
"Yes," he gasped as he collected himself. "Let's just get the hell out of this village."
Karachev, Soviet Union, June 18th, 1943
Of course, Doctor Krüger had not been able to find anything about Berning that indicated self-mutilation. So Berning continued to vegetate following the particularly rough examination by the physician, just waiting to be released for the recovery leave of several weeks. A leave that would allow him to cure himself at home before he had to report to the recovery company of his division in Münster.
So Berning would go home.
In spite of the dull pain, in spite of the numbing of the medication, in spite of the burning in his throat, the stench and the cramps in Berning's limbs, his existence was brightened. With a little less melancholy, he awaited the future. He was looking forward to seeing his father and his dear mother again. And Gretel ... he was especially looking forward to Gretel. If she had remained the same girl, he would be able to impress her as an experienced combat veteran with his wounds.
Sergeant Berning was unspeakably grateful to leave the front line. Now he had proved that he was a good soldier; he had contributed his part to the war. It was only fair that he went home for a few weeks to recover – and to be allowed to stay away from the war for a few months.
With quiet steps, Doctor Krüger moved into Berning's field of vision. This time Nurse Micgy wasn't around; Krüger's bony fingers clasped the NCO's file instead.
"Herr Unteroffizier," the doctor began with exaggerated friendliness, "how are we today?"
Cold sweat gathered on Berning's neck. He straightened up as best he could and stuttered, feeling extremely uncomfortable in the doctor's presence: "It's all right."
"Well, we're very happy then, aren’t we?" Krüger grinned before letting his gaze wander over the documents in Berning's file, which he slowly flipped through.
"I've consulted your platoon leader, Herr Unteroffizier," the doctor mentioned casually, and then looked up. He stared at Berning with tiny eyes. The sergeant was holding his breath. Krüger's grin took on a bizarre aspect, then he pushed his lower jaw forward and added: "For such faithful service to your fatherland and an unconditional sense of duty, one should always be rewarded."
With a delicate hand movement, Krüger pulled a paper from the file and laid it on Berning's woolen blanket. The sergeant read its title "Villa Romana del Casale – Adolf Hitler Sanatorium for Deserved Soldiers" with a dull feeling in his body. He then looked up questioningly – questioningly, but already animated by an evil premonition, which dug out his stomach like diarrhea.
"You must have missed this one. Were you too busy fighting the enemy with doggedness?" The sarcasm was pouring out of Krüger. "In any case, our Reich Chancellor has founded a sanatorium for wounded Wehrmacht soldiers in Piazza Armerina, which was opened in May: the most modern sanatorium in the world! So that you can lick your wounds in peace, I have enrolled you there."
"Piazza Armerina"?
"Sicily."
"Sicily? Si ... Sicily????"
"That's right. Feel honored. You're one of the very few who's so lucky. I personally worked for it." A threatening note flickered over Krüger's grin. "Your plane leaves on Sunday."
Berning's fingers tangled the white sheet so strongly that his ankles began to hurt.
Coast off Segi Point, Solomon Islands (GB), June 21st, 1943
Private First Class Tom Roebuck, a brown-haired man in his late 20s whose receding chin and thinning hair were his most distinctive features, clasped the bazooka with both hands and supported it propped against the floor of the amphibious tank he was in. Together with another 20 soldiers of his platoon, he stood in the loading area of an LVT-1 Alligator, which was supposed to bring them to the beach at Segi Point.
It was dark in the belly of the transport ship, which was supposed to land the battalion’s Alligators within attack range of the coast. The vibrations from the craft’s engines passed constantly through the aluminum plate of the Alligator. Roebuck felt the transport vessel reducing its speed. Slowly, the quiet rattling that had accompanied the Marine Raiders for so long died away.
Roebuck looked over the heads of his platoon-mates at the large metal ramp that would come down in a moment to release all the amphibious tanks the transport vessel had loaded. His fellows were in shadow in front of him. Roebuck clearly saw the distinctive contours of their circular steel helmets. Someone was coughing. Another one was constantly jingling a chain.
Two Marine Raiders whispered quietly. A Garand carbine clanged when its owner accidentally struck the muzzle against the sidewall of the Alligator.
In front, the amphibious tanks had a small superstructure with a weapon station each to the left and right. There was one soldier perched behind each Browning. Only their upper bodies protruded above the hatch.
Roebuck was nervous. This wouldn't be his first combat mission, certainly not. That's why he was nervous. He now knew what it meant to be under fire and to fear for his life. Above all, however, the fight against the Japanese was more merciless and cruel than his imagination had been able to show him beforehand. The fucking Nips fought fanatically, surrender didn't seem to know them. Rather, they would storm American positions with drawn swords and let automatic weapons mow them down than surrender when fighting a lost cause. Even the wounded often fought on, attempting to sweep American paramedics with hidden grenades to their deaths. Every single battle, every skirmish was a cold-blooded slaughter – every Japanese soldier had to be pulled out of his foxhole and put down individually. The Japs were different from the Krauts – the Gunny had told them. The Germans at least understood when they were beaten.
Slowly it dawned on the soldiers of Company L of the 4th Marine Raider Battalion that this war would not end as quickly as they had hoped. When things would keep going that way, they had to storm every goddamn island between New Georgia and the Japanese mainland before Tōjō would finally fly the white flag. But the next step had to be the isolation of the Japanese fortress near Rabaul. If the Japs were no longer able to operate their aircraft and ships from there, it would mean a major blow for their campaigns in the Pacific.
The batteries of two light cruisers, which were trying to level the coastal entrenchments of the Japanese, banged dully behind the vessel's thick ramp. Latest intel mentioned that the enemy had apparently realized at the last moment the importance of the Segi Point region to the Allies, and had moved some special regiment to the southeast corner of New Georgia.
With a soft squeak, the big ramp lowered. The glistening light of the Pacific sun flooded the cargo bay. Roebuck closed his eyes and held his arms
in front of his face. The engine of the Alligator began rumbling, then the tank started rolling. With a massive jolt, its front side hit the ramp, which led directly into the water.
Saviano (everybody called him "Pizza"), a slim man of Italian origin from the big city, with a distinctive moustache adorning his face, patted Roebuck on the shoulder from behind when the Alligator entered the water and left the protective belly of the transport vessel. An almost paradisiacal sight was offered to the Marine Raiders, if it wasn't for the mighty war machine of the USA that dominated the scenery. Bright blue water surrounded an island close by, which defined the horizon as far as the eye could see. Wherever the sea touched the land, it turned into a fine sandy beach, which after a few yards transformed into lush green jungle. In the background, brightly-lit mountains soared up, surrounded by mist veils.
Roebuck looked over the edge of the open cargo compartment of the Alligator and saw how amphibious tanks were rumbling into the water from the bellies of big transport ships. Farther back, the cruiser USS Helena and the destroyer USS Jenkins rode the waves of dark blue water. Every few moments, their batteries fired off a salvo that went crashing down in the hinterland of the beach. Small impact mushrooms rose where the giant shells struck. Columns of smoke stood like exclamation marks over the beach. Palms caught fire and overturned. In the firmament, the planes of a fighter squadron buzzed around. The blue paint and the white stars on the hull flashed in the sun.
Right at the front of the Alligator, Gunny, a tall man over the age of 40 whose gray hair was only a few millimeters long, turned to the men and shouted over the roar of the tank and the thunder of the ship's cannons. "Listen! You know our mission! We storm the beach, occupy the hinterland, and create a beach head for the pioneers. Two things! First, never travel to New Georgia without condoms!" The gunny grinned mockingly and with a gesture of his hand pointed to the condoms that the soldiers had put over the muzzles of their weapons. These would keep the coarsest dirt and moisture away from the barrels.