The cars stopped and dodged potholes in the road. Luis folded his arms and stared. The sky was too low for there to be any risk to this little convoy of enemy bombers. The night brooded, a boxer awaiting the next bout. The column of cars and motorbikes slipped past Komsomolets state farm, heading straight for the base of Hill 241.6. There the column stopped.
A motorcycle split off from the convoy and came across the field. In a broken path - the rider may have seen Red bodies on the ground in his headlamps - it came up the hill. This motorcycle had a sidecar attached to it. Without concern for the noise he made or the sleeping soldiers sitting up from their ground cloths, the rider stopped at one of the Mark IVs in Luis’s company. He paused, then revved his little motor down the line to the rear of the Tiger.
‘Captain de Vega, sir?’
Luis stayed high on the Tiger. The light from the motorcycle spilled over him, he was spotlit.
‘What is it?’
‘Major Grimm would like a word with you, sir.’
Luis glanced down at his crew. Balthasar sat upright in his underclothes. The gunner elbowed the radioman, who elbowed the loader and the driver. All watched.
Luis jumped off the Tiger and landed like a cat. He strode to the sidecar without a word and climbed in. The courier whisked him away in a sharp turn, the headlamp swept in a circle across many white faces turned his way.
The motorcycle caromed down the hillside, avoiding lifeless Soviet tanks, craters, and gloomy lumps that had been men. At the bottom of the hill, the row of vehicles had shut down to wait inside the night. Major Grimm had come all the way up from Belgorod to see Luis, over thirty miles of battered road and ground, with six vehicles attending him, twenty armed men. Why?
The courier halted next to a long black Mercedes. Luis rose out of the sidecar. A Wehrmacht private opened the rear door of the Mercedes. The courier pulled the motorcycle a few meters away and cut his engine. Luis folded and got into the car.
He chose the open seat, the bench facing the rear. On the opposite long seat was a heavy man mopping his brow.
Luis inclined his head. ‘Major.’
‘Captain de Vega.’ Grimm spoke, lowering his kerchief for a moment.
He looked out the car window at the dim silhouettes of Soviet tanks across the slope.
The major said, ‘You’ve been doing well, Captain. We’ve pushed your block quite a ways in the past five days. Now you’re on your way to Prokhorovka. Then Kursk, we hope.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Luis was not glad to see Grimm, even with his constant affability. What did the major want? Grimm knitted flabby fingers in his lap to keep himself from tapping on his knees.
The major said, ‘I thought I owed you a visit.’
‘Thank you, Major.’
Grimm swiped his kerchief under his bullfrog neck. ‘Captain.’
‘Yes, Major.’
‘You have performed well. First you defended the Tigers against the partisans. Then you served Colonel Breit and myself capably in the situation room. And you have done splendidly in the field. You know this.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘You have been put up for several medals.’
Luis said nothing. It was good to hear but this was not the point of the midnight visit.
Grimm’s eyes flagged. Some new defeat was in them, something not on the map table.
‘I understand, son.’ Grimm aimed a finger at Luis’s chest. ‘I know how important it is to you. And you’ve done well.’
Luis was impatient. He cocked his head and prodded. ‘But?’
Grimm did not hesitate anymore.
‘But the Americans invaded Sicily this morning.’
Luis was rocked more by this statement than by any shell that had hit his Tiger. The news pierced him, his chances for redemption.
Grimm continued. ‘Over three thousand ships. The American landing force consisted of eight divisions. Reports say that some of Mussolini’s troops helped the Americans unload their transports.’
And what about Citadel?’ Luis forced himself to keep his voice even.
‘Is the battle called off?’
‘Not yet. Hitler’s waiting to see the progress at Prokhorovka. There’s no more movement in the north. Model’s been completely stopped there.
The same on the Oboyan road, Hoth is at a standstill dealing with attacks on his left flank. The only chance to reach Kursk is here. With you and the SS
through Prokhorovka. I came to see your positions for myself. And to tell you. Privately. This is not information for anyone else. You’re the only one, Captain, who I am certain will fight harder because of it. The rest of the men will find out when they have to. You understand.’
‘Yes, sir. Of course.’
Grimm ran a hand across his pate, the bristles of his cropped rim of hair sizzled under his palm. He looked again out at the dim battlefield.
There were plenty of knocked-out Soviet tanks there. If Hitler could come and see for himself, Luis thought, he would never stop Citadel. We’re still strong, we’ll beat them. Let us fight. Let me fight.
‘Two or three days, Captain,’ Grimm said. ‘That’s all the Führer is going to wait. If there’s no breakthrough at Prokhorovka, he’ll put a stop to this. So.’
‘I will do my duty, Major.’
Grimm smiled again, insipid and still eager to please. ‘I’ll keep an eye on your block, Captain la Daga.’
Luis wanted to lean forward from his seat and snarl at the tip of Grimm’s fat nose. Climb into my Tiger with me, you tubby slab of shit, keep an eye on me there! Tell Hitler to let me fight!
Luis took one breath to calm himself, he drew in the safe stink from this officer, his sweat and resignation, the cleanliness of his game board in Belgorod. Luis knew his lips were tight, clamped against his anger at the news and the man who’d brought it, even his kindness in doing so. You’ve done well, Captain. But not well enough. I thought you’d like to know. You’ve got two days to take Prokhorovka. The Americans, you understand. Out of my hands.
The staff car started and flung on its lights. Luis watched it pull off the road and circle to return west, followed by its entourage, except for the sidecar motorcycle. He waved the rider off. The courier nodded, then followed Grimm.
Luis had hours left to him before morning. He’d walk up the long hill and count the dead Russian tanks.
* * * *
CHAPTER 23
July 11
0540 hours
the Karteshevka-Prokhorovka road
Dimitri had never seen this much traffic. He moved the General at a slow walk, the pace of the thousands of men and trucks ambling east with him over the road and in the fields on all sides this morning. He hadn’t shifted past second gear in more than four hours, most of that spent jerking along in first. He’d grown impatient with the bumpy ride and the grinding transmission. He wanted to stand up and yell at the shuffling soldiers and spewing trucks, You’re in the way of a tank! A tank! With a shell or two in their tails they’d clear the road fast enough and let the General speed through.