Casca 42: Barbarossa, page 16
Gus stood up and emitted a thunderous fart. “Ah! That’s made some room. Now for breakfast.”
“God’s sake,” Teacher said, flapping the newspaper, “the Soviets will think we’re using chemical weapons!”
Gus roared with mirth and ambled off, whistling a ditty in a terribly off-key way. Nearby windows were in danger of being shattered. Teacher shook his head and resumed his study of the paper. “He’s impossible, you know.”
“Yes but you’d rather have him on your side than against you,” Langer said, scraping away some stubble from his cheek.
“Regrettably that is true. Could we threaten Ivan with sending him over to them to eat their rations, and accept an unconditional surrender in return for keeping him here?”
Steffan guffawed and Felix grinned. It was good to laugh once again. The constant retreat had affected them badly, and the loss of so many good comrades had hit them all very hard. It was only in February after the Russian counter-attack had run out of steam that they had been allowed to regroup and were sent south.
The days were getting warmer and the hours of daylight longer. It wouldn’t be long before they were once again in action. The situation in the north had solidified after some very hard fighting, and now both sides were taking a breather and eyeing one another, wondering where the next blow would fall.
Langer himself guessed they would be in the forefront of the next German push; the fact most of their armor had been sent to the Ukraine meant their attention was here, rather than in regaining the lost ground close to Moscow. It all depended on whether the improvements to both sides had closed the gap or kept it as it was. The numbers favored the Russians, as it always did, but the Germans had better equipment, although the Russians had some pretty good stuff and were churning them off the production lines now their factories had been rebuilt east of the Urals. He felt that unless they knocked the Soviets out this year, they may as well resign themselves to a losing battle. Sooner or later the Russians would have better and more numerous guns, aircraft and tanks, and that would be when all their advances would be for nothing. He felt chilled at the prospect of communism dominating Europe.
“Gus is going in the direction of the canteen,” Teacher observed. He was sat on an upright ammunition case, a wooden table alongside him, upon which rested a couple of mostly finished wine bottles, a ceramic mug, a pair of sunglasses and a wallet. He looked the epitome of a man enjoying a trip into the countryside. He clucked his tongue at the editorial and turned a page.
“Goebbels pissing you off again, Teacher?” Felix grinned.
“Hmm-hmm,” Teacher nodded slowly. “More hyperbole and rhetoric.”
“If I knew what that meant I would agree with you,” the mechanic chuckled and bent to examine the engine once more.
Langer swished his foam-covered knife in the bucket. “Any indication as to what the mighty Wehrmacht is going to do this Spring?”
“Nope,” Teacher shook his head. “Nice advert about holidays to the Baltic Coast,” he turned the newspaper round for the others to see.
“Don’t tell Gus or we’ll be off deserting in no time,” Steffan commented, finally sliding his knife into his boot sheath, satisfied it was sharp enough. “I must admit I’m getting bored sitting around here, with only the daily practice to look forward to.”
“Patience, Steffan. I have no doubt we’ll be thrown into the bullring again before long. Have you forgotten the nightmare of January and February already?”
“Not a chance, Sarge, but at least its warmer now and we don’t have Uncle Joe Stalin up our asses 24 hours a day.”
“Aye – even our red friends need to rest and recuperate. I bet they are gathering their forces to give us a right old pasting somewhere. The trick is to know where.” Langer gazed eastwards. Somewhere out there they were getting ready, like some huge monster ready to strike. “Both sides will be out for the early advantage – let’s see what our plans are first, eh?”
“So what do you think they are, then, Sarge?” Steffan asked.
“Attack,” Langer grinned. “Forward! Quickly!”
They all laughed at his poor imitation of Guderian. A few minutes later Gus came back, a sack of something struggling slung over his back. Muffled sounds were coming from it. Teacher sighed and folded his paper away. “He’s back and got something alive.”
Langer swilled the last of the foam in the bucket and wiped his smarting face. Good that the two day’s stubble was gone. He ran a hand down his tingling cheek and jaw. “Alright Gus, have you got a prisoner of war there or something the Headhunters will be visiting us for in the next few hours?”
Gus grinned his gap-toothed smile and threw the sack down at his feet. The nearest crew to them was thirty yards distant, clustered around their tank and tents. There was plenty of space and to avoid being hit by any chance Jabo – dive-bomber – they were scattered over a large area. “I thought the regimental cookhouse had too much food for them to process, and came across our little friend here,” he tapped the squirming sack with his foot. “I think he escaped from some village pen anyway. Hasn’t got a hammer and sickle brand mark though, so I’m not that sure.”
“What is it?” Teacher asked, eyeing the moving bundle suspiciously.
Gus grabbed the tied neck, undid it, reached in and pulled out a piglet, its snout tied to stop it squealing too much. “Roast pork, anyone?”
“God’s sake, Gus, that was probably Generalleutnant Breith’s dinner for tonight – you do know the divisional commander is visiting us today, don’t you?” Langer said. “You’d best return it or we’ll be for it for sure.”
“Sarge,” Felix stood smartly to attention. “Permission to transfer to another regiment with immediate effect?”
“Denied,” Langer said wearily. “Gus!”
Gus shrugged. “Oh it’s alright, it was in a truck parked outside the field kitchen doing nothing. I just picked this little darling as it was smiling at me, sort of an ‘eat me’ kind of way – I was trying to be thoughtful.” He rummaged in the bottom of the sack and tossed a second package at Steffan who caught it automatically. “Look after these until I cook little piggy,” he said.
Steffan weighed the package and then squeezed it gently. “What is it?”
“Sausages,” Gus beamed. “Can’t die of hunger now, can we?”
The piglet, wriggling in Gus’s hands, suddenly broke loose, the gag slipping from its snout. It went squealing off in the direction of Kharkov. Gus roared and pounded after it. “Come back you stupid animal!” he bawled. “You’re needed in the opposite direction!”
“This is an insane asylum, Carl,” Teacher stated, crossing his legs. “How he has not yet been court-martialled and shot is beyond me.”
Langer slid his knife into his belt sheath. “And me. At least he managed to get a nice stack of sausages. Steffan, hide them in the ammo cupboard in the turret.”
“Sarge.” Steffan climbed up.
Felix ambled up, wiping his hands. “Fixed. The panzer’s good to go.”
“Excellent. All we need now is an order telling us in which direction. Training has been pretty intensive these past few days. I bet there’s something in the pipeline and we’ll know before long.” Langer turned and watched as Gus rampaged after the bawling piglet in the distance. “He’d best calm down or the Russians will think it’s a full-scale artillery barrage and radio to Moscow for reinforcements.”
The others agreed. In the distance to the south-west the outskirts of Kharkov could be seen, their supply center and rail-head for the army. Ahead of them, twelve miles away, lay the front line. Although not front-line troops, they could feasibly be caught up in any long-range Soviet artillery bombardment. Gus and the piglet vanished, but their combined sound could still be heard for some time.
A few days later, after a satisfying meal of piglet and sausages, orders came down that they were to prepare for an offensive. Ammunition was gathered, fuel arrived in bowsers, food handed to the troops. The target was the so-called Barvenkovo salient, a large bulge in the front line to the south and south-east of Kharkov. The 3rd Panzer Division was assigned to the northern pincer with orders to hold the Soviet forces currently massed in the Staryi bridgehead, directly to the east.
“So we’re not going to be in the attack then,” Gus said, chewing on yet another hunk of sausage. Where he had managed to find this, nobody knew nor were they going to ask. “What are we doing here, then?”
“We’re the plug stopping any possible counter-attack from the east. HQ are apparently getting worried about the build-up they’ve been warned about.” Langer shrugged. He didn’t have access to any grand strategic plan, so he had to go along with his gut feelings. They were telling him the Russians wouldn’t hang about, but come at them again once the rapistuta, the muddy season, was over. It was now May and time was almost up for the waiting. “Bock’s got the 23rd Panzer to lead the attack. Well you’ve got to understand his reasoning,” the eternal mercenary waved at the vague shapes under netting in the near distance. “We’ve got only seventy tanks or so serviceable and we can’t launch a full-scale offensive with just those numbers.”
“So we’re the minders, are we?” Gus stated. He grunted. “That’s fine, an extended rest is what we could all do with. So what’s facing us then, Carl? The 101st Nymphomaniac Virgin Female Army?”
The others grinned. Langer shook his head. Gus was never going to change. “Nothing so formidable. Two armies, that’s all, their 28th and 38th. Four more further south, too. What state they’re in is another matter, but if they’re anything like us then it’ll be a short fight – without fuel I doubt we’d have a long battle.”
Felix scratched his scalp. “I hear most of the fuel has gone to other units – as we’re reserve we’re not that important. We’ve got enough for one day but that’s it.”
“Ammo, Steffan?”
“We’re stocked up, Sarge, plenty of that.”
Langer nodded. It definitely seemed they weren’t going to be put into action any time soon. But what they didn’t know was that the Russians were planning an offensive of their own, designed to capture Kharkov, and that their forces in the Staryi salient were much stronger than thought.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The sound of artillery was a rude awakening. Men dashed about in all directions, shouting. Langer grabbed his crew, pulling them from their tents. “Get into your uniforms – Ivan is attacking!”
Gus almost took his tent off its pegs as he rose like some whale from the deep. “Can’t a man get some fucking sleep?” he roared eastwards. “I haven’t given you permission to attack yet, you goddamned idiots! No overtime pay for you, comrades!”
“Gus, uniform, rifle, helmet, cover, in that order!” Langer yelled at him as he ran past, a forefinger pointing straight at the giant driver’s face.
Captain Heidemann was sitting on an upturned water pail, the company’s radio on a table next to him. Heidemann was listening in on the earphones in one ear, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, and a mug of coffee in his other hand. “Yes, sir,” he was saying as the tank commanders came crowding in. “We can hear it – off to the north-east. What was that? A full-scale attack? Where? How do you spell that sir….oh alright I’ve found it on the map. They’re surrounded? Yes sir, we’re fueled up and supplied. What? Await the arrival of who?” he screwed his face to hear against the backdrop of artillery explosions in the distance. “Very good sir, we’ll be ready to move in thirty minutes. Out.”
He threw the earphones down and stood up, his white shirt and bracers at odds with his black trousers. His jacket lay across a chair on the other side of the table. “Right here’s the deal you lot. Third brigade get your panzers up and moving. Ivan’s throwing a fit and sending everything he has in this region against us. He wants Kharkov and we’re in his way. There’s two pincers, one either side of the city. We’ve got the northern pincer to stop, and Timoshenko has sent in his 28th Army with a shitload of tanks to push us out of the way. The rest of us need to stay here just in case things go wrong, and of course we haven’t got the fuel yet for every tank to be used. Oberleutnant Schmitt-Ott will lead the brigade.”
“Air support, sir?” one of the other commanders asked.
“None. They’re still busy buggering the Ivans in the Crimea. Bock has asked for help now and hopefully von Manstein will see sense. If we get routed here then the Crimea will be a cul-de-sac. Now, we’ve been set a task by HQ to block the Ivans’ advance. We’ll be sent towards the village of Privole which is where the likely Soviet axis of attack will pass.”
“What formations are we likely to face, sir?” Langer asked.
“Intelligence says at present the main thrust is being done by their 124th Rifle Division, so we’ve got lots of nice soldiers to hit. Just be warned that they’ll have anti-tank a-plenty, so we’ll need to have the schutzen in close support. I’m to detach a battalion of the 3rd Schutzen Regiment, a company of the 39th Panzer Pioneer Battalion and a battery of the 75th Artillery Regiment to support you panzers.”
The droning of aircraft reached their ears. “Ivans!” someone yelled.
“Take cover!” Heidemann yelled, reaching over and grabbing his jacket. Anti-aircraft began to open up from the perimeter and men scattered, heading for the foxholes that had been dug a few weeks back.
Langer ran back towards his own unit, hoping to hell the Jabos – dive-bombers – missed them. The rising scream of Soviet aircraft filled the air as he ran the last few yards and dived into a handy trench, already occupied by three men. Crammed together they ducked as a series of explosions rent the air and shook the ground. Machine-gun and cannon shell impacts heralded the passing over of the sleek machines of war, and heads ducked involuntarily as a burst tore up the ground close by.
Flak guns spat defiance at the Sturmoviks and Pe-2s with their 88mm ordnance, but hitting one of the fast-moving sharks was almost impossible. They did put a smooth run-in out of the question, though, but most of the tanks escaped damage. A few were hit as were the temporary buildings that served as the HQ for the regiment. Screams came from those hit or set alight, and jerking marionettes came burning from the blazing inferno, to fall into blackened charred figures before help could get to them.
As fast as it had arrived, the air strike was gone.
What remained were the cries and groans of the wounded, the crackling of flames and the distant rumble of artillery. Langer slowly raised his head and surveyed the surroundings. Smoke, flames and a downpour of rain. Lovely. Visibility was for shit, that’s for sure. He slid out of the trench and turned a full circle. Nothing threatened and he stood up. “Alright, they’re gone. Anyone hurt?”
There were mute shakings of heads, and the soldiers were pulled out of cover and sent to check their vehicles, or to form stretcher bearer details. Gus came over, wiping earth off his jacket. “Now they’ve paid us a visit, Carl, how soon can we go over to their place and return the compliment?”
“As soon as our panzer is up and running. We’re gathering a force to stem the Soviet advance – once we get the word we’ll have to move fast so make sure everything is working and in order, Gus.”
“No problem, Carl, leave it to your reliable crew to make sure you’ll sleep in comfort through the mightiest battle on God’s own earth!” He saluted smartly and spun on his heel.
Langer shook his head and waved the others towards the tank. Netting was being thrown off the metal hulls as the regiment prepared to move once more into combat. He vaulted onto the tank and clambered up onto the turret, passing his MP40 down to Steffan who stowed it on the hull brackets behind Langer’s seat. The Maybach engine coughed into life and a blue cloud of exhaust fumes billowed out behind them, then it settled down into a steady throaty growl.
Earphones on, Langer settled in his upper seat, his torso out of the top hatch. “Panzer number three ready,” he voiced, and waited for the orders.
A babble of voices confirmed they, too, were ready, and only two were damaged and needed repairs. Without them, the rest set off with Oberleutnant Schmitt-Ott leading, driving due east towards a distant rising dark cloud that marked the front line.
Teacher looked up. “Carl, have we got those new shells everyone’s been talking about?”
Langer looked down, bending his body slightly. “I think we have, yes. Steffan, have you been told about these new shells?”
Steffan looked at the gleaming ordnance in the racks to his right. “Hollow-charged, aren’t they? Not sure what that means, Sarge.”
“Something to do with better penetrative power,” Langer said, then straightened. They would need any help against the T34s and KV-1s.
“My weapon’s certainly not hollow-charged,” Gus’s voice came faintly to him, “but it definitely has great penetrative power.”
Langer grinned. “Then Teacher should shoot it at the first T34 we encounter, don’t you think, Gus?”
Felix and Steffan chuckled and even Teacher cracked a smile. Gus scowled and clutched his groin. “This baby’s not going to be wasted on some syphilitic commie tank crew – give me one of those female mortar crews and yes, I’ll show you how to conduct an all-out offensive.”
“I’ll bear that in mind, Gus. For now, just concentrate on following the Oberleutnant. The rest of you watch out for Jabos – I’m willing to bet they’ll be back once they’ve re-armed and re-fueled. We’re a nice juicy target for them.”
They rattled on, a big wedge of armor, rolling over the gentle undulations of the countryside that ran in between the rivers Lipets and Babka. The rain made visibility difficult but the radio kept on crackling with orders, shouts, disagreements and warnings, so he had a fairly good idea what was happening.
The Russians had seemingly opened up a huge offensive out of the Staryi bridgehead, with three armies now having been identified, the 21st, 28th and 38th, and the 3rd Panzer Division was being sent to Privole to stop the likely advance of the 38th Army who were facing that part of the front. Garbled messages from the outnumbered German forces at the front had stated that tanks and soldiers were crushing their formations and troops were beginning to run. The panzers of the 3rd would be vital to stop the threatened rout. Two rifle divisions were coming their way, the 124th and 226th, both with tank support.
