On 10 July, the allies invaded Sicily.
At Wolfshanze in East Prussia, the Führer 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 Führer 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, Hen Feldwebel, naturally." Langer was too tired to argue or question him further. Almost without realizing it, his eyes closed. Teacher took the still smoldering cigaret 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.