by Tom Zola
And there were still more Russian tanks coming out of the dusty curtain. And more. While a detonation to the left of Franzi II threw cobble stone fragments and humus into the air, the panzer was shaken by the plain blast. Engelmann started to believe that his regiment stood no chance in this encounter. They were mercilessly outnumbered by Russian tanks, and 11th and 12th Company had already taken quite a beating.
"Our comrades took the residential district," Nitz shouted between the racket of the tank battle. The message had come in via radio. Lots of prisoners were captured during the assault. The Russians had fought bravely, but in the end had not been up to German superiority. Also the tank battle behind the cathedral would not change anything about the outcome of the battle for Tula – nothing at least from the point of view of the overall situation.
For Engelmann and his fellow tankers, it could still be the last battle of their lives, because the Russians fought as hard as ever.
The remains of the regiment now entered the site behind the cathedrals in the backs of 11th and 12th Company, but unlike Stollwerk, bold leaders seemed to be missing there, because the Panzer IVs took positions at a distance of almost 1,000 meters; from there they tried to do what they were just able to do. That wasn't much in view of the thick T-34 armor. The Russians swallowed the bombardment from a distance, as if they were pelted with muddy tomatoes. Buzzing ricochets rattled away from the tanks and went somewhere to explode.
"They smoke us! That's for sure," groaned Nitz, who pressed the radio receiver to his ear.
"Burgsdorff must make his panzers engage in close combat, dammit!" Münster said as he wiped the sweat off his forehead.
"Stay calm," Engelmann coaxed his tank men. His fingers clawed so violently into his seat shell that his ankles shimmered whitish under his skin. Now there was no more tactics, no more tricks. The two enemy tank fronts faced each other and fired with everything they had. Machine guns rattled, big main guns banged.
Those who shot faster, hit better, and had more tanks would finally win the fight – and this time it seemed to be the Russians who settled the race. One German tank after the other fell apart under heavy hits. Screams and wild orders reigned all frequencies. Engelmann saw through his vision block how Stollwerk's panzer rammed a T-34 at full speed. The lieutenant caught himself thinking about ordering his crew to flee – just bail out and scram. Suddenly a shout of joy came out of the loudspeakers of his headset.
The Tigers of the Africans had followed the regiment behind the cathedrals. 20 Tigers against just over 40 T-34 – poor Russians.
More and more Soviet tanks accelerated and drove into the formation of 11th and 12th Company to stop the Tigers from firing at them. But they underestimated the capabilities of a well-trained gunner. The Tigers mercilessly let their main armament do the talking. 8.8-centimeters tank guns turned eight enemy tanks into glowing garbage in an instant. The enemy was still resisting total destruction, but the battle was already decided.
Southwest of Piazza Armerina, Italy, July 3rd, 1943
The 299 patients had been awakened this morning at the crack of dawn by the staff and gathered in the large classroom, where Medical Brigadier General Link, a broad-shouldered man with a high forehead and steel-grey eyes, appeared on stage together with an Italian officer called Tonti. The staff of the sanatorium were also present without exception. For Berning, it was the first time he saw Link in uniform. After all, Berning hadn't had to wear the plaster since the day before and was finally able to move his arm a little again.
"I had you come together today to tell you a few important things," the medical officer began straight away. After each sentence, he took a short break to give Tonti the opportunity to translate what he had just said.
"Last night, enemy paratroopers landed at Gela and Sycarus." A murmur and rustling went through the ranks of those present.
Link continued: "As we speak, German and Italian forces are defending themselves against enemy invasion troops along the entire south coast from Licata to Augusta. Ladies and gentlemen, the battle for Sicily has begun."
Link let these words have an effect on the auditorium for a moment.
"I already spoke to General Hube, who in turn spoke to Feldmarschall Kesselring. It is the unconditional will of both our Chancellor and the Italian leadership to hold Sicily at all costs! They have started to transfer additional troops from the mainland to us in order to face the enemy with all due determination.” Link's gaze wandered from one attendant to the next. It finally touched Berning, who was on his way from simply shocked to being paralyzed because of the news.
With a firm voice, Medical Brigadier General Link declared, “There is therefore no reason to abandon this institution."
The murmuring and whispering in the hall intensified.
When a physician tries to assess a military situation … Berning thought without knowing whether Link was right or wrong in his assessment. He further considered that Chancellor von Witzleben certainly wanted to prevent his "lighthouse project" from having to be evacuated.
"So if you hear the distant thunder of the guns from the coast in the next few days, please don't worry," Link continued when the noise in the hall had subsided again, "that's just our artillery blowing the enemy back into the sea."
"Well, hopefully they won't get their wind back," a young guy remarked next to Berning, who chewed his fingernails all the time.
"Only one thing will change for us," Link's voice fought its way through the muttering in the room, "we will have to vacate Block 2. General Hube will set up his command post there. He is going to arrive with an anti-aircraft unit this afternoon. For camouflage, we will affix big Red Cross flags on the roofs of all buildings.
I'm afraid the luxury of a single room is no longer granted to some of you, but at least you can continue to sleep comfortably, because the Anglo-American bombers won't dare to attack a Red Cross facility. Sieg Heil, comrades."
While Tonti translated the last part of the speech, Link smiled contentedly and looked into the faces of those present. Many visages were darkened and grimly serious, but the doctor seemed to believe confidently in a victory for the Axis powers here in Sicily.
Berning wasn't so sure. The Americans were considered strong, but so far in this war there had not been an open fight with them on land. On the other hand, the Wehrmacht – and above all the Italians – would do everything in their power to defend this island, for now it was no longer about any areas in the East; it was about their very own soil.
Berning felt safe enough here in this sanitarium. As a wounded man, he was first of all fine – and if necessary, American captivity would not be the worst lot either. Better than being a POW in Soviet Russia... or even a soldier on the Eastern front. Berning nodded at the thought, shaking off his shock. After all, things could work out just fine for him.
Southwest of Tula, Soviet Union, July 4th, 1943
After two months of toughest fighting, two offensives, and even more sturdy defense, Panzer Regiment 2 was now completely bled out despite some makeshift refreshments from replacement units. The formation was no longer able to participate in any significant action. So it became common knowledge that the regiment would soon be posted to the rear echelon. Everything was waiting for the marching orders. Until then, the tank men spent their time with training, maintenance work, but above all with smoking, drinking, eating, and lazing around. After all, the battle for Tula had been won; the whole offensive had worked exactly as von Manstein had planned, although a military strategy never actually survived the first contact with the enemy.
Right now everything was quiet on the Eastern Front. 2,500 kilometers of front line had fallen into complete silence, while both sides licked their wounds and began digging themselves in again. The Red Army was broken up, but also the Wehrmacht was no longer in a position to undertake any more ventures. In the worst case, this was the beginning of trench warfare.
The sun was setting. Engelmann stood in the door frame of an aba
ndoned farmhouse, which served the survivors of 12th Company as a dwelling. The lieutenant leaned against the door frame, stared out at the wide plain, and sighed. During phases of no combat action, he found it particularly difficult to bear the fact that he was out here – thousands of kilometers away from his family.
In his hands, Engelmann held Corporal Born's "The World Set Free." Since he had been in possession of the book, he wanted to read it, but to this day he hadn't gotten beyond the page with the copyright information. Sergeant Münster walked out of the narrow forest where Franzi II was hidden from curious eyes in the sky and moved across the open space between the woods and the farmhouse. Torn fences indicated that animals had once been kept here.
Münster reached the farmhouse, nodded to Engelmann, and squeezed past him into the kitchen. Jahnke, Nitz, and some other tank men occupied that room, putting away black bread with a wafer-thin spread.
"Unteroffizier Münster?" Engelmann's voice was sharp and reflected how angry he was about the recent behavior of his driver. Münster turned around with his shoulders hanging.
"Yep, Herr Leutnant?"
"You know very well that you shouldn't traipse out of the forest exactly where our tank is located, but have to move within the forest to another place in order to leave it somewhere else. If a low-flying aircraft recons you, he'll know where our tin can is right away."
Münster shrugged his shoulders. "I don't see any low-flying aircrafts."
In Engelmann’s chest, something was boiling. Rarely had he felt such rage as he did at this moment. The comrades in the kitchen seemed to understand what writing was on the wall. They stopped chewing and became very attentive. Only Münster looked lethargically at nothing special.
"Herr Unteroffizier, come outside with me. I need to talk to you in private."
Münster did not respond verbally, but with all his facial features, he showed Engelmann how annoying and superfluous he thought this conversation was. Like a stammering dog, he followed his commander.
When both had won some distance to the farmhouse, Engelmann began with a calm voice: "You are the best tank driver I know. But, Jesus, what's the matter with you?"
Münster shrugged his shoulders again. "I don't know what you mean."
"I think you know very well what I mean."
Both stared at each other for a moment, then the sergeant opened his mouth: "I am just done with all this coffee crap, Lieutenant."
"How come?"
"Well, first of all, because there's no more coffee. Those wind eggs from supplies can drink their spare shit themselves ... and second, because I'm worried that we have a totally incompetent leadership that's too stupid to die to make the right decisions."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I beg you, Herr Leutnant! It's so obvious."
"No, it is not to me. Enlighten me."
"Ever since our Führer has died, things are pointing south! Von Witzleben and his lackeys are the absolute losers who have no idea of war. I mean, they disbanded our most competent and powerful military organization. What a load of bullshit! Ask any soldier of the Wehrmacht. Everyone can tell at least one story where he was happy when suddenly the boys from the SS showed up. That was our elite! And these eggheads in Berlin disband it, smash their battle-hardened units, and distribute the SS men throughout the Wehrmacht, so that their military clout is destroyed forever."
"...the SS was anything but powerful..."
"No!" Münster had the audacity to interrupt his lieutenant. "The Wehrmacht is simply unable to make the right decisions. Von Manstein is such a security fanatic that he delays final victory by years! All this shit could be over by now, if only the gentlemen had some guts!"
"Oh? Is that so?"
"Of course! Stalingrad!" Münster underpinned the name of the city by raising his hands in an evocative manner. "We had the city in our hands, Herr Leutnant! THE industrial center on the Volga – and Stalin's name on it. The loss of Stalingrad would have broken Ivan's spine. Stalin would have surrendered – or at least he would have been chased out of office by his infuriated generals.
“Stalingrad, Herr Leutnant! We had almost taken the city; and what do the wimps decide in Berlin after our Führer is dead? Fall back! RETREAT! We could have ended the war before Christmas if only these do-gooders had followed Adolf Hitler's plan of conquering this damned city. Instead they now order such mini offensives as Kursk or Tula. Here one hundred meters of land gain, there three kilometers. How long is this shit gonna last? I don't intend to celebrate my 35th birthday at the front, but it seems to be more important for von Witzleben that we give the poor, poor prisoners of war enough to eat and caress everyone's head once a day – those filthy bastards!"
"I think you're misjudging the situation."
"Maybe you're misjudging the situation, too. Talk to Hauptmann Stollwerk for a minute. With all due respect, the man is a veteran of the Great War and of the SS. I think he understands best what's going on. Now the Americans have landed in Sicily! They'll finish us off from all sides if we don't change tack real quick."
"Did Stollwerk say that too?"
"Mhm."
"In any case, I expect you to behave according to your rank, Herr Unteroffizier."
The two men stared at each other for a moment like rival bulls after a fight that had ended with a draw. Finally Münster slammed his heels together.
"Understood! Heil Witzleben, Herr Leutnant!"
Southwest of Piazza Armerina, Italy, July 5th, 1943
Berning grumbled into himself while pressing his head into the pillow. There was a sergeant snoring piercingly whose bed had been placed at the other end of the tiny room. It sounded as if he would saw up an entire forest. But it wasn't just the sleeping noises of his new, overweight roommate, whose right hand had been smashed by a splinter of a grenade, it was above all the Allied bombers who flew day and night into the interior of Sicily since the beginning of the invasion to bomb airfields and troop gatherings. They kept Berning from sleeping, and now the enemy bombers were roaring high up in the sky again.
He closed his eyes and wished he could do the same with his ears. He had not perceived any German airplanes or at least Italian ones so far, and those who now flew over the Adolf Hitler Sanatorium certainly were no friendlies, for they came from the southwest and headed to the northeast. At least the AA-guns stayed silent; they would add a whole new level of racket to the already-vociferous background noise. Apparently they didn't want to draw the enemy's attention to this facility, and had only set up the guns for emergencies.
Berning's eyes were reddened, and heavy tiredness dazed him. But he couldn't sleep with all that noise drilling into his skull like a cutter head. The roar of the engines became louder and louder as the bombers made their way across the sanatorium.
"Can't you make your war somewhere else?" Berning whispered pleadingly. Nevertheless, he had to think of what Link had said: Throw the enemy back into the sea.
"Pah!" Berning spat out. Morons, morons, morons, morons! Throw them back in the sea my ass!
The Americans, who had landed at Licata, Gela, and Vittoria, had advanced everywhere up to twenty kilometers inland. The British and Canadians, who had landed at Augusta, Syracuse, and Avola, had already joined forces with the Americans to form a united front line that cut through Sicily like a knife. Piazza Armerina was only nineteen kilometers away from the vanguard of the US forces.
"Damn Avantis! They can't even defend their own fucking country," Berning groaned and slowly tried to get used to the fact that he probably wouldn't sleep that night anymore. Two o'clock was already over. At least the pain of his wounds had degenerated into a dull and numb feeling.
The only thing that kept him from going mad was the prospect of getting out of here soon. Now that the enemy had gained land so quickly, Berning counted on an hourly evacuation order for the sanatorium. Perhaps the sitrep even played into his hands, and he would still get into a hospital close to home.
A siren went o
ff. Evenly howling, the sound bored itself into Berning's head. First he sighed, with rage filling his chest like water fizzing into a bowl. Then he paused. Never before had the siren sounded. In the next moment, the AA-guns started firing. The light anti-aircraft guns consisted of four 2-centimeter autocannons each, producing a continuous thunder that threatened to destroy what was left of Berning's hearing. The guns were located directly next to the block he was in. Clattering, the AA-guns sent glowing projectiles into the sky. The blast waves they produced made the window panes tremble. Anti-aircraft shells glided through the night like burning eels.
Berning's roommate woke up smacking. "What now ...?" he began to speak, then the first bomb explosions rang out in the forecourt of the housing blocks.
The blast of the detonations tugged at the buildings with all its might, finally causing the glass of the windows to burst. Berning threw his blanket over his body, protecting himself, while the fine splinters rained down on him like a hail shower. His roommate fell out of bed.
Hell had broken loose out there. An entire bomb carpet hit the sports field and the excavation site. The wooden stands ruptured like glass balls. Leg-sized, torn wooden planks shred across the site, knocking against the walls of the blocks. When Berning pulled himself together and, rising above his coughing roommate, looked out of the burst window, his blood froze in his veins. Against the moonlight, white parachutes shimmered in the night sky, slowly floating down to the earth.