Yuri hissed softly between his teeth and pointed out into the darkness. Following his finger, Langer could see shadows moving slowly, carefully feeling their way in the darkness between the grass and small brush that remained after the battle. One and then another. Yuri, he thought, that little shit has eyes sharper than a jungle cat. Tapping Teacher, he told him to pass the word to get ready.
They hunched lower in the shell hole, only eyes showing above the lip. The first Russian gingerly crept to the edge of the shell hole. Thinking it vacant, he started to crawl in and was helped along with a hand from Langer as his throat was locked in a vise grip. Carl dragged him down to the bottom and squeezed, feeling the cartilage crumble beneath his fingers. There could be no noise. Yuri patted him approvingly on the shoulder when he rose from the Russian's body and went back to the side of the shell hole and regained his rifle and bayonet. Another crept close to Stefan, only to have his head caved in with a blow from the sharpened edge of his shovel. The Russian died, not hearing his last breath, but his comrades immediately behind him heard the sucking sound of the shovel being pulled from his skull. They froze.
The NKVD with the green cross on his soft cap moved up to them. Hearing what happened he reminded them to take prisoners. On his command they were to throw themselves in the hole with the Fascists and wipe them out, except for one, who he would question later. He relished the idea of the screams he would induce when he hammered a brass cartridge into the kneecap of the prisoner. That never failed to elicit a proper response when he asked his questions.
Creeping from one man to another, he made his way down line. When he stood, they were to rush. No shooting. Knives and bayonets only in the hole. There couldn't be too many in a hole that size. Gathering himself, he took a deep breath and then rose to a half stand. His men immediately lunged for the hole. The first one in died with his throat torn open by Yuri's butcher knife, but the others made it in. Langer thrust with the bayonetted rifle like a spear, catching the first one in the stomach and then twisting the blade to tear it free and striking another in the face, crushing the jaw. A bayonet on a Moisin Nagant slid along his rib cage. Burning, he twisted and kicked his attacker in the balls, slashing across his throat as he did. The shell hole was a confused million, grunting, groaning mass of men who stabbed and beat at each other in the dark. Not a word was spoken. They fought and died silently except for the sounds that blades and rifle butts made when they sank into an abdomen or smashed open a skull. The NKVD man threw himself on a German's back and sank his knife deep into him, twisting the blade and moving it from side to side. He felt a sexual thrill as the German's death shudder was transmitted to him from the steel. Turning to take out another one, he lunged at a stocky figure only to have his thrust blocked. A distant flare lit up the hole enough for him to get a quick look at the German, a sergeant with a thin scar on one side of his face running down to the cheek. He lunged again, this time only to feel his hand locked in a grip which bent it back over his wrist. The bones in his wrist cracked as he was thrown to the ground. The last thing he saw was the shadow of the German's boot coming down as Langer kicked his head into a pulp.
The surviving Russians dropped their weapons and began to run back to where they had come from. In the heat of the battle no one had noticed the rumbling clanking that was coming closer to them.
A tank . . .
Teacher swore, "Ah, now we're in for it. Those bastards are going to grind us under. We better get our asses out of here."
The surviving Russians ran to meet the approaching monster only to freeze in terror when it turned and ground three of them under the treads. A gurgling laugh came to Langer's group in the hole. Gus in a Tiger was joyfully chasing the Russians across the field. Only two got away by playing dead, one had his arm flattened out as fifty-six tons of the Tiger ran over it. There was no pain, the sheer weight of the tank pinched all the nerves in the arm.
Gus locked his left tread and headed for the hole, where he wheeled the monster around and leapt from the driver's hatch. Grinning hugely he waddled over to the hole. "What are you doing down there? Come up and see what Uncle Gus has brought you."
Teacher told him to shut up. He was pulling Stefan out from under a pile of Russian bodies. Gus did just that. Getting into the hole, he took Stefan from him and told the others that he would take care of him. For the first time since Langer had known Gus, he had nothing wise or smart ass to say. Taking a shelter half, he wrapped the body in it and carried it off in his arms like a baby. Carl wasn't sure, but thought he heard him crying. No, not Gus. He wouldn't do that.
With the dawn, Gus returned. He had carried Stefan seven miles to the rear to the graves registration company in charge of casualties for this sector. After turning Stefan's paybook and ID tags over to them, he had insisted on burying him by himself. He wanted to make sure the job was done right. When he returned, there was no sign that anything had ever happened. He thumped down in the hole and began to wolf down his iron rations, eating as if that was the only thing of importance in the world.
Langer walked around the Tiger noting the deathshead insignia of the Totenkopf Division on the rear and front glacis. Joining Gus, he said.
"Where the hell did you get it?"
Gus, his mouth full, gulped and swallowed, his Adam's apple doing filthy things to his throat. "Well, you said the captain said we should get our own tank. I went and got one and it's a beauty, fully gassed and loaded."
Langer shook his head. "But how?"
Gus smiled a crooked, self-pleased grin. "I knew that bunch of Hitler's cowboys were not too far away, so I paid them a friendly visit to promote brotherly feelings between the SS and the Wehrmacht and to demonstrate my affection for the baby butchers. I took two bottles of vodka with me, but it seems somehow that the mineral oil I use on my hair got into the bottles and the mixture upset the dear boys' stomachs and while they were shitting their guts out, I merely got in and drove off. By the way, I would recommend you find some paint and do some redecorating on it before they come around. They ought to be getting better about now."
Langer climbed into the commander's seat. "Let's move out and find some paint for this mobile pillbox before we have company."
Yuri was now a full-fledged member of the crew and took over the loaders job and Manny moved over to the hull gun and radio.
Gus started up the engine and they headed over to where Captain Heidemann was raising hell with the supply officer about his allotment of petrol and munitions. When the Tiger stopped in front of him, Langer jumped down. The captain stood for a moment stuttering and then, "Where the hell did you get that? No, I don't want to know. Tell me nothing."
Gus stuck his head up through the hatch and winked at Heidemann. Heidemann turned his back. "I didn't see it. It was never here and one of these days, I'm going to have that insubordinate bandit driving for you shot. Now get it out of here and meet us back at Prokhorovka. We are going to regroup there and for God's sake, stay out of the way of the SS. If they see you in one of their tanks, they'll turn you over to the headhunters for target practice. Now go!"
Langer left Heidemann mumbling to himself as they headed off across the field. Gus was happy as a child with a new train set as he played with his toy, all the time keeping Manny informed of the best way to cook a hog's head and keep the flavor in.