The rear doors opened and disgorged an impressive military figure and three aides. The two officers came to attention and saluted the battlegroup commander, Major General Hyacinth Graf Strachwitz von Gross-Zauche und Camminetz.
He returned the salute.
“Oberst von Hardegen… Hauptmann Zander, good to see you both again.”
He held out his arm to the Europa’s commander.
“Kuno, come walk with me.”
The two moved away, heading towards von Hardegen’s tank, discussing the successes and failures of the day’s battle as they walked.
The pain was extreme, but Stelmakh still managed to direct his crew.
The tank had refused to start, and Stepanov was nose down in the engine compartment trying to find the problem, aided by Kalinov, who claimed some mechanical knowledge.
The tree that had arrested their reversing manoeuvre now helped greatly in saving their lives, its thick leaves shrouding the two men at work on the back of the heavy tank.
Ferensky had slowly and carefully pulled some more foliage down onto the turret, concealing the hatches, from which he and Stelmakh kept watch.
The main enemy force had long since moved into Trendelburg, but a group of enemy infantry was still to be found within the Soviet infantry positions that had long since been cleared of motorcycle troops.
Stelmakh debated the issue.
Starting the tank would warn the enemy infantry who, in turn, would bring down artillery and call for the enemy tanks’ return.
He did not consider surrender.
He did not consider waiting until dark claimed the battlefield.
“So why aren’t we waiting until night, Comrade Kapitan?”
In a stuttering and clearly painful way, Stelmakh explained his thinking.
How the regimental fuel reserve was located just north of Deisel, at the express command of their now-deceased leader, rather than filling their hungry fuel tanks.
How he didn’t expect it to be there for much longer, especially if the enemy were pushing forward.
How without it they had no chance to get back to their own lines.
Ferensky understood, sort of, and waved his commander to silence.
“I get it, Comrade Kapitan. So we get one bite at this, and one bite only.”
Stelmakh nodded painfully and then a distant noise caused his eyes to narrow.
A group of enemy vehicles sped across the high ground, occasionally dropping from view within its undulating folds.
Stelmakh turned to observe the two men head down in the engine compartment, straining his ears to hear the conversation.
“… not an expert, Comrade Driver, but I’d say that this bit should attach to something.”
“Ha ha fucking ha. Have you just pulled that off?”
“Nope… it was off all by itself.”
“No way, can’t be… I’d have seen it straight away.”
“Well, you didn’t, cos it was.”
The squabble was brought to an end by a hand slapping on the tank’s turret armour.
Stelmakh said nothing, but they still got the message.
Quickly connecting up the wiring loom, Stepanov and Kalinov gently placed the grilles back in position, before sliding back up to the turret.
Kalinov, grinning from ear to ear, dropped back into the turret, having given Stepanov a look of professional disdain.
“Comrade Kapitan… I missed it. Simple wiring probl…”
Stelmakh held up his hand, cutting the driver short.
His eyes made the enquiry.
“Yes, I’m sure we’ll start first time, Comrade Kapitan.”
Stelmakh controlled his swollen and bruised mouth well enough to speak clearly.
“Good, very good. Get ready. You remember the route?”
“Yes, Comrade Kapitan.”
Stepanov carefully slid across the top of the turret, checked the nearby infantry positions, and slid feet first into his position.
“Crew, standby by.”
“Comrade Kapitan.”
Ferensky extended an arm, pointing at the object of his concern.
A quick look through the binoculars and Stelmakh’s mind was made up.
“Get ready and make it count, Yuri.”
“We’ve only got solid or HE now.”
“Make it count then, Yuri.”
Stelmakh felt no pain as his mind’s resources were drawn to concentrate on timing his move to perfection.
He watched the target move across his front, right to left, spared a look at the infantry positions, and another look for objective Sem, and then back again to the moving vehicle.
“Yuri?”
“I’m on it, Comrade Kapitan.”
“Onufriy?”
“Finger on the button, Comrade Kapitan.”
“Start when we fire.”
“Yes.”
“Yuri?”
“On target. Ready.”
Stelmakh watched and waited for the perfect moment.
“Fire!”
The armour piercing shell struck the Panther at the join of turret and hull, penetrating with ease.
It failed to explode, but caused severe damage to the workings of the gun and turret, before deflecting down into the front of the tank, moving through the hull gunner, and coming to rest in the transmission.
The smell of blood and tortured metal filled the driver’s nostrils and, without orders, he pushed himself up and out of the hatch.
As his ears recovered, he realised the sound that assaulted his ears was that of a man screaming.
A horrified look revealed Kuno von Hardegen stood erect in the turret, but screaming as if mortally wounded.
Another sharp crack marked some large weapon firing, and the driver squealed in fear, expecting another Soviet shell to arrive.
But it was not aimed at him, and he pulled himself back to reality.
The driver hopped up onto the turret roof and took von Hardegen around the shoulders, intent on pulling his commander out of the smoking wreck.
He overbalanced and fell backwards onto the engine grill, unprepared for the lack of weight, as only the top half of his colonel came out of the tank, the lower portion having been severed by the shell.
Von Hardegen let out a single piercing scream… a long scream… a scream revealing the highest level of suffering.
The driver brought up everything his stomach contained, fainted, and toppled off the rear of the Panther.
Von Hardegen started a different cycle of agony, as the hot engine covers added to his extremis, and burnt into the flesh of his shoulders and buttocks, roasting the pieces of tattered flesh and bone that had once been his thighs and groin.
Whilst some of the sturm-grenadiers sought out the Panther’s destroyer, a few hardy men ran towards the Panther, intent on offering what help they could.
A Leutnant climbed up on the rear, and also brought up the contents of his stomach. Despite his long years of service, he was unprepared for the horror that lay on the Panther’s engine grilles.
The Panzer Oberst had no legs, the shell having struck him precisely on the left hip joint and gone through his body, exiting three inches below his right hip joint, and wiping out everything in between.
Blood, urine, faeces, all were mixed in the liquid that seeped from every part of his ruined body.
The next man up was an old Stabsgefreiter, a senior corporal, a man who did the only thing that could be done.
The bullet blew the back of Kuno von Hardegen’s head off, bringing him immediate relief.
The Leutnant, dry retching by now, his stomach emptied, controlled himself long enough to accept back the Luger that the Stabsgefreiter had snatched from his hand.
“Thank you, Poppelmeyer. Thank you… from him.”
The old soldier nodded and dropped off the back of the burning tank, picked up the unconscious driver and carried him off to the infantry positions.