Casca 4: Panzer Soldier Read online

  Langer laughed. "You got that right, Ivan. He is a crazy devil. Just keep your mouth shut around him and maybe he'll forget, though I wouldn't bet on it.''

  Spotting the burned out KV-1 on the hill, they swung past it and saw the rest of their battalion loading up with petrol and ammo.

  "Good. We're low on both. Find a place in the line."

  Langer left the others to see to the servicing of the tank and took the Tatar with him to report to Captain Heidemann.

  Heidemann was conferring with a dispatch rider on a motorcycle but waved him over. "Glad to see you back, Langer. What do you have here?" He pointed to the Russian.

  "Hitchhiker."

  Heidemann sighed, "Well, we don't have time for a prisoner. You found him, you take care of him."

  The dark little man knew instinctively his life was being handed over to the man with the scarred face.

  "Nix schiessen, spasibo Germanski, Yuri." Then pointing to himself, "Nix Stalin." He made the rocking motion of a mother and child with his arms. Langer watched the little man and shook his head, smiling to show everything was all right.

  "Germanski, nix schiessen, Yuri." The little wiry man lit up, his gold teeth flashing. He knelt down and placed Langer's boot on the top of his head. "Dosvedanya. Stalin kaputt."

  Teacher came up while this was going on and Langer told what the captain said. "I guess we'll keep him for a while. You take him back and get him out of that Russian uniform or he won't make it through the day."

  Teacher nodded. "You think it's wise to do that? We might wake up with our throats slit one morning. These devils are mighty handy with a blade."

  "I think it's all right. I know something of the people, and the little scene you witnessed where he put my foot on his head made me his master. He's not a true Russian, he's from the steppes to the east. Just a poor bastard who's been caught up in this thing like the rest of us, but once a Tatar acknowledges someone as his master, he's faithful to the death."

  Teacher still had a puzzled look on his face, but the tone which Langer used said he knew what he was talking about.

  Taking Yuri by the arm, Carl guided him back to their tank, where the rest of the crew chipped in pieces of clothing to make him a semblance of a uniform. Before Teacher would let him change, he made him take a bath, a thing which seemed to wound the Tatar's dignity worse than being captured, but he complied after Gus took out his pliers. Murmuring “Khrpikj djavol" he kept a wary eye on Gus and his pliers while he washed.

  Langer and the others received their orders for the day's mission and returned to their vehicles; getting them positioned, they waited for the order to move out. Yuri fairly sparkled at being able to ride on the tank in the new uniform. When the tanks rumbled and clanged their way forward, he cried happily so all could hear, "Stalino kaputt. Urra Germanski."

  CHAPTER SIX

  The next eleven days were a nightmare of fire and death. Tanks stood at point-blank range firing into each other. The fastest crews survived. Antitank guns from both sides took a deadly toll. The German Nebelwerfers were answered by the rushing roar of the Stalin organ, the Katyushin multiple rocket launchers. The infantry fought with guns and grenades locked in the greatest struggle of history. By the thousands and tens of thousands they died. On the sector of the Gross Deutschland Division alone, three hundred German tanks were locked in a death grip with seven hundred Russian tanks like pit bulldogs; neither side would let go until dead. At night tanks would ram each other in the dark. There was no respite. Each knew the battle would foretell the future. Everything was staked on this card.

  Yuri had become one with the crew, learning to leap inside the turret escape hatch with amazing speed when the shit started. His sharp eyes had more than once spotted an enemy tank and given them the advantage of the first shot. Eleven days and they had only advanced five kilometers past Verkhopenye. The first battle for the prize of Kursk was ready. Both sides licked their wounds and prepared for the morning of the twelfth.

  From Stavka the Russian high command had come, one of those Hitler-type commands that all soldiers fear. General Vatutin showed the order to his military council member, Nikita Khrushchev. The Germans must not break through to Oboyan. This order, like that Hitler had given to Paulus of the 6th Army at Stalingrad, meant stand or die. So be it.

  On a hill overlooking Prokhorovka, General Romistrov gave the order for Soviet counterattack. Eight hundred and fifty armored beasts revved their engines and moved out, mostly T-34s, with a sprinkling of self-propelled guns. They advanced, their crews confident. They rumbled across the flats leading to the Prokhorovka just in time to meet the new assault of Hausser's SS Panzer Corps, six hundred Panther Mark Vs and nearly a hundred of the massive Tigers with their high-velocity 88s. They met in the orchard and fields. Soon each tank was on its own, whirling and firing. The sound of exploding armor merged into the continuous roar of cannon fire. Overhead the two air forces met, each trying to give their side the advantage. Shtormoviks raced low over the groves spewing death from their machine guns and rockets while the Stukas of Captain Rudel dived screaming to smash at the vulnerable rears of the T-34s. Rudel's tank killers, armed with the new 3.7-cm antitank cannons, blew tank after tank to pieces, turrets bursting from their housings to land yards away. Crashing fighters and bombers added their rubble to the fields below as they whirled and dived, twisting in a danse macabre. The sky darkened from the smoke of burning tanks and the smoke hung low over the fields, masking whole sections of the front until the only way to tell who your opponent was, was to smash into him close enough to see the faces of the commanders in their turrets frantically trying to kill you.

  Crews able to escape their burning vehicles hid in the ditches and trenches trying to bury themselves in the earth. Most became part of it when the treads of an assaulting or retreating tank mashed them into jellied pulp. As often as not the tank was one of their own.

  Langer's battalion was assaulting from the western flank and penetrated the Soviets from the side. The Panthers did deadly work as they raced into the confused mass of milling steel monsters until they too were lost in the maelstrom and each fought separate and alone. Burning Tigers littered the ground. The range at which they fought was so short that even the lesser guns of the T-34s ripped them apart.

  Yuri, standing at the side of the Panther, hurled grenades at Russian crews hiding in shell holes while the rapid high-speed chatter of the machine guns swept everything in front of them.

  Langer's Panther slid out of control down a gully, only to be stopped by smashing into a T-34 with a broken tread. Neither one could turn its cannon to fire on the other. Yuri screamed like a banshee and leapt on the turret of the Russian, beating at the closed hatch with egg grenades, uselessly. Gus frantically worked the controls trying to back away far enough for Teacher to put a round into Ivan but just dug them in deeper. Langer yelled for Manny to hand him up a shell and taking it, jumped from his turret to that of the Russians. He placed the round under the overhang at the rear of the turret and taking a grenade from Yuri, he set it by the shell and pulled the pin, throwing himself and Yuri off to land behind the Russian. The grenade set off the 75 mm and blew the turret clear from the T-34. Amazingly only the commander was killed in the explosion. The rest of the crew sat at their positions stunned, blood pouring from nostrils and ears. Yuri. screamed with joy and threw himself into the interior slashing throats with the long-bladed butcher knife Langer had given him the previous day. He killed them all and rose from the hull dripping blood and smiling.

  Holding a Russian's severed head in each hand by the hair and showing them proudly to Langer, he said, "Yuri good Germanski, nyet?"

  Langer rose, still somewhat stunned from the explosion, and told Yuri to throw them back. They didn't have time for souvenirs. Disappointed, Yuri spat in each of the faces and tossed the heads back into the hull with the bodies they had come from. The Russian medics could match them up later.

  Gus finally got enough distance f
rom the T-34 to be able to pull back and get enough of a run to break out of the ditch his own treads had created. Lurching, the Panther clambered out of the gully as Langer and Yuri leaped back on and climbed inside in time to see a MIG smash into the earth and explode not seventy meters in front of them.

  Overhead the killer – a Gustav ME-109 wheeled off after a twin-engine bomber. Time lost all meaning. Minutes became hours. Hours seemed like eternity. Everything was exaggerated – the sounds, colors, tastes. The smell of cordite and burning fuel oil clogged their nostrils. The battle was winding down. In an area of less than ten square miles, each side had lost over three hundred tanks. Romistrov ordered his survivors to withdraw, racing to the rear, the turrets still facing the Germans and firing. The survivors ran, leaving the field of slaughter to the Germans. As Langer followed in pursuit, his tank seemed to rise up into the air and then fall back. The crashing of his tank was covered by the explosion of the Russian shell that had blown the treads off. Smoke was coming from the engine. These damned Panthers had a tendency to burn all too easily. Gus swore like a madman as he bailed out of his escape hatch. The others joined to take cover in a shell hole, taking their personal weapons with them. They huddled together as the KV-1 heavy tank sent another round into the Panther, the ammunition inside going off like fireworks. Tracers raced over the sky as the Panther burst open, burning. The Germans had won the day, but were now so bled out they could do little else than hold their positions. There were no replacements for the armor and men that had been lost.

  Captain Heidemann found them walking to the rear. They climbed aboard his tank to ride to their battalion HQ, what was left of it. With the dark, Langer put his crew into an abandoned bunker with orders to get some sleep. He would see what was going to happen next.

  On 10 July, the allies invaded Sicily.

  At Wolfshanze in East Prussia, the Fuhrer raged at Kluge and Manstein. His eyes sweaty, a noticeable tic playing on his face, he cursed the Italians for lack of spirit and leadership. He knew Sicily was lost and that the next step for the allies would be an invasion of the Italian mainland and into the Balkans.

  Turning to Manstein the Fuhrer spoke in a low voice, trying to control the rage that ate at him. "If this happens, our whole southern European flank will be threatened. That I cannot let happen. It is necessary that we reinforce our units in Italy, and to do that I will have to pull divisions back from the battle for Kursk. There is no other place I can get them. It is my order then that Operation Citadel be stopped."

  While the Führer conferred with his generals, Langer sat on the ground outside a Russian izba (hut), one of the few left standing. Heidemann tried to gather what remained of his unit into a cohesive force. They were scattered all over the battlefield. Of the twenty he started with, only nine tanks remained and these were in sore need of repairs and fuel.

  Breaking away from his radio, he took out a bottle of cherished Calvados brandy from the happier days in France. Pulling the cork with his teeth, he took a long pull of the hot, sweet, apple-flavored brandy. Wiping his lips, he handed it to Langer.

  "Look like you could use a pull."

  Langer nodded wearily, his face looking as if he were getting ready for a minstrel show. Only the eyes and mouth were clear of soot and dirt. Leaning his head back, he opened his throat and let the sweet burning slide down to his stomach, where it settled in a warm glow.

  "It was a bitch out there today, Captain. What's next? Do I get a new tank?"

  Heidemann laughed bitterly, "New tank, new tank. There's not a new tank to be had. Until you reach Berlin, this is it. Nine fucking Panthers out of twenty and I don't know what's going to happen next. Until someone at command makes some sense out of this mess, you'll just have to tag along as best you can. There's nothing I can do for you unless you can find your own tank somewhere. You'll just have to join in with the infantry for the time being. Now go back to your crew and get some rest. Scavenge whatever weapons you can find, especially MGs. If Ivan hits us tonight, we'll need everything we have just to make it through the first attack. Now get out of here."

  Langer sent Gus and Stefan off to scrounge what they could from the smoking hulks that lay around them. A belt of machine-gun ammo here, a bag of grenades there, a half-buried loaf of bread with only a little mold on one end that could easily be cut off.

  Somewhere, Gus came up with three bottles of vodka. Speaking as low as he could, he said to Carl, "You did say the captain said we would have to walk unless we found our own tank didn't you?"

  Langer took a pull from one of the bottles. "That's right, you great hulking ape, and the only good thing about it is at least we'll be in the open and I won't have to smell you fart all day."

  Gus sucked his lower lip thoughtfully. It was impossible to insult him. "All right, Sarge. Thanks." He walked off looking like a gorilla in uniform.

  "Where the hell do you think you are going?" Langer shouted.

  "To follow orders, Herr Feldwebel, naturally."

  Langer was too tired to argue or question him further. Almost without realizing it, his eyes closed. Teacher took the still smoldering cigarette from his fingers and crushed it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The crackle of a machine gun firing snapped his eyes open. His hand instinctively wrapped around the pistol grip of his submachine gun. Yuri touched him gently on the shoulder. "Russki charoscho."

  Pulling up to the edge of the shell hole that had been his bed, Langer wiped sleep from his eyes. They burned and felt sticky. "Where are they coming from?"

  Yuri pointed to a darker shadow, barely visible in the night. Another clatter of light machine-gun fire winked at them with bright flashes. Teacher moved up next to him and sighted with his rifle.

  Langer pushed the barrel down with his right hand. "No firing. They're just trying to see where our positions are. Pass the word. No firing until I say. If they can't get us to give ourselves away, they'll probably send out a scouting party next. So everyone on his toes and awake. Where's Gus?"

  Teacher shrugged in the dark. "I don't know. After you went to sleep, I saw him rambling off to the right mumbling something about following orders."

  Carl cursed, anger building. "God damn him. Won't that son of a bitch ever learn to sit still. Yuri, go take a look see." Handing Yuri his watch with an illuminated dial, he pointed to the minute hand and showed Yuri how long to be gone. "Twenty minutes, no more."

  Yuri gave one short "Da, Hetman," and then slid on his belly over the shell hole and disappeared.

  The minutes crawled. Sweat ran down his back, sticking to his jacket and skin. His armpits felt raw where dried sweat and salt had collected in the hairs, rubbing him raw. Finally, a small dark form wiggled back into the hole silently. Reluctantly he handed the watch back to Langer.

  "They come, maybe twenty moujiks, peasants. They have a green cross with them. He wants prisoner for question, threaten them with Piljudji, prison. They no get." Yuri spat a gob of phlegm on the ground. "NKVD sabaka dog."

  Calling the others to him, Langer told them to keep quiet and let Ivan get closer, then use knives and entrenching tools first and not to fire unless things became too hairy and they couldn't handle them. The night grated on their ears as they strained for any sound that meant the Ivans were getting near, each man with his favorite weapon for close fighting. Teacher strapped his bayonet to the side of his boot. Putting a finer edge to the blade, Stefan preferred an entrenching tool, the short shovel with the edges sharpened. Yuri played with his butcher knife while Langer picked up an abandoned rifle and fixed his bayonet to it. Manny did the same, following Langer's suggestion that he didn't have enough experience for anything shorter. They waited ... each man to himself, with his own thoughts.

  Teacher mused on how often they got back to the basics of existence and struggle here. Surrounded by all the technology of modern warfare they now waited to beat the brains out of their enemy or gut him with bayonets and butcher knives. Progress marches on.

&n
bsp; Yuri hissed softly between his teeth and pointed out into the darkness. Following his finger, Langer could see shadows moving slowly, carefully feeling their way in the darkness between the grass and small brush that remained after the battle. One and then another. Yuri, he thought, that little shit has eyes sharper than a jungle cat. Tapping Teacher, he told him to pass the word to get ready.

  They hunched lower in the shell hole, only eyes showing above the lip. The first Russian gingerly crept to the edge of the shell hole. Thinking it vacant, he started to crawl in and was helped along with a hand from Langer as his throat was locked in a vise grip. Carl dragged him down to the bottom and squeezed, feeling the cartilage crumble beneath his fingers. There could be no noise. Yuri patted him approvingly on the shoulder when he rose from the Russian's body and went back to the side of the shell hole and regained his rifle and bayonet. Another crept close to Stefan, only to have his head caved in with a blow from the sharpened edge of his shovel. The Russian died, not hearing his last breath, but his comrades immediately behind him heard the sucking sound of the shovel being pulled from his skull. They froze.

  The NKVD with the green cross on his soft cap moved up to them. Hearing what happened he reminded them to take prisoners. On his command they were to throw themselves in the hole with the Fascists and wipe them out, except for one, who he would question later. He relished the idea of the screams he would induce when he hammered a brass cartridge into the kneecap of the prisoner. That never failed to elicit a proper response when he asked his questions.