“As if I could stop you, Comrade Driver.”
The normal start of an exchange over, Meier posed the question that was on his and Jarome’s minds.
“Given that there’s just three of us, why in the fucking name of the devil’s drawers are we still going after that big bastard?”
It was something that Köster himself had been giving some thought.
Not that he felt his friend deserved a sensible answer.
“Because we are heroes, Ritterkreuzträger Meier. It is expected of us.”
Jarome saw the opening.
“In which case, Oberscharfuhrer, I should be permitted to leave. I don’t have the Ritterkreuz.”
“You were recommended for one, so you’re in, like it or not.”
That the statement came from Meier caused the gunner to scoff, and his right foot lashed out, catching Meier’s shoulder sufficiently to display his feigned ‘annoyance’.
“I’ve been assaulted by a junior rank, Rudi. What sort of fucking tank are you running here?”
“You deserved it for being disloyal to your only friend. Shitty drivers are all the same… and ten-a-pfennig, so… if you don’t want to be assigned to the petrol column, I suggest you stop annoying our efficient gunner and know your place.”
The humour died away in an instant.
“Come right… I want to go up that grassy slope there… I think we can do that… agree?”
“No problem.”
The Tiger moved onto the new course and took the grassy route with ease.
“I’ll give you ten-a-fucking-pfennig drivers. It’s you tank commanders that are cheap and nasty… with your nice Ritterkreuz, all shiny and unspoilt because us drivers do all the work whilst you put brilliantine in your hair and pose for the photographers.”
Not for the first time, the subject of Köster’s photo shoot was used against him.
After Hangviller, Köster had been photographed and interviewed by ‘Voir’ magazine. The subsequent edition contained no clue to his former allegiance, but simply talked of the efforts of the French Army and, in particular, the Foreign Legion, in stemming a huge Soviet counter-attack.
The picture had been edited, for ‘security purposes’, removing all but clearly French insignia and rank markings, and the accompanying story held little resemblance to the events of that cold January day.
That did not stop Köster getting stick from anyone who knew anyone who had heard someone tell the story they had heard from someone else.
Basically, everyone with a pulse and the ability to work their mouth.
“I sense your next application for leave may fail.”
“I haven’t asked for any leave.”
“Excellent.”
Köster started humming the funeral march.
“Bastard.”
Jarome decided to stay well out of it.
Suddenly, it was back to business.
“Take her left into that scrub. I want to take a look around.”
Lohengrin disappeared into the greenery.
The infantry group had waved Kon and his tank forward, no resistance, no mines, nothing in place to bar the way.
‘Almost too good to be true.’
He reasoned the matter out.
This was not a set defence, the enemy had only recently arrived.
No time to do anything much by way of preparing a defence.
The battle was fluid.
An organised ambush wasn’t likely.
More likely was an encounter with something moving up or back…
‘Or sideways… or up its own ass…’
Kon laughed.
Such was the nature of battle.
“Right, driver, move up slowly. Stop by that wall and let our infantry comrades remount.”
The IS-IV moved forward.
With all the soldiers back on their perches, Kon order the heavy tank to move up the road.
Jarome and Meier had taken a few moments to check out more of the tank.
Meier was happier than the gunner, who discovered that the foot pedal linkage to the coaxial had been neatly severed by a piece of grenade.
He had also caught his foot in the blast hole in the metal floor, the pain growing by the second.
His continued assessment of the damage was cut short by the breathless arrival of a red-faced Köster.
“Bastard’s coming up the road on the other side of this wood.”
He quickly grabbed the map and ran his finger over it, lifting information from it and forming a plan.
“We can’t go through the wood… too much noise… skirt it to the right but he may get in position and raise hell before we can intercept. Klaus, move off around the wood to the right… quick as you can.”
He tucked the map away in one of the clips that had housed the ready use main gun ammunition.
…which reminded him.
“Gun is loaded?”
“Yep. Forty up.”
Which meant that an AP-40 APCR tungsten-cored shell was in the breech, the best tank-killing round the Tiger possessed.
Perversely, the AP-40 had been in shorter supply in the previous war than it was now, with few Tiger Is in service, the round could be allocated in greater numbers, mainly from Allied-held dumps of captured ammunition.
Meier used all his skill to bring the tank up to the required position, as quietly and quickly as he could.
“This will be no place for your men, Comrade Starshina. Drop off here and watch our tail, just in case someone comes up the hill after us.”
The infantry grape dismounted and moved back to cover the rear.
Kon ordered the IS-IV forward.
Moving up to the edge of the tree line, he looked in front of him and saw what was often labelled as a ‘gunner’s dream’.
Enemy vehicles and guns, all looking the wrong way.
Ever the veteran, Kon checked around, sensing a something that worried him, and looked straight down the barrel of a large calibre gun on a very familiar chassis.
“Driver back! Now! Gunner target right forty!”
The IS-IV lurched back.
“FIRE!”
Köster stood away from the breech, ready with another AP40, although he knew that Jarome would not miss… could not miss.
Nothing happened.
“FIRE!”
“I can’t fire. Something’s wrong.”
“Back up… for fuck’s sake, back her up now!”
Lohengrin’s gearbox protested but held, and the Tiger made a sudden lurch backwards.
A 130mm shell gently kissed the top of the glacis plate and passed close enough to the side of the turret to sear the paintwork with the heat of its travel.
Köster stuck his head out to check the rear.
“Back left, hard down, keep up the speed, stand by to hit the woodwork!”
The rear of Lohengrin swung into the stand of trees, smashing two small trunks flat without a hint of trouble, before coming up against a more worthy and decidedly thicker opponent.
Meier changed down to a lower ratio reverse and kept up the pressure.
The tree gave up the fight, and the Tiger tank disappeared into the small wood.
“Lucky bastard moved just as we fired.”
“Never mind, Oleg. We have other company. Target, tank, front, right eight degrees.”
Whatever it was, it died.
The 130mm shell made a mess of it, sending armour plates and other pieces of wreckage flying in all directions.
A shell spanged off the turret, small in calibre and of no threat to the IS-IV.
“Recon vehicle crossing right to left…”
Kon resisted the challenge.
“Ignore him… target… tank. Left five degrees.”
Morozov could not see the target until a flame blossomed from its gun.
The 128mm APCR struck the gun mantlet and flew off to the left, ploughing through the trees.