CHAPTER TWO
The Soviets finished their bombing-and-strafing runs, red stars and white trim clearly visible in the clear air. Their flight leader gave one lazy victory roll over the burning tanks below and followed his squadron, content to have sent a proper Russian welcome to the Nazis below. Such was his self-con-tent that he never noticed the dark specks diving on him from twenty thousand feet. His first indication of something wrong came when his instrument panel was blown up by a burst from the 30mm cannon in the nose of the Gustav (Messerschmitt fighter), leading the swarm of four ME-109s now pouncing on the Shtormoviks that had done such slaughter below on their comrades.
Captain Ilye Popel, winner of the Order of Suvaron II class, screamed as the interior of his cockpit filled with flames, licking at his face, burning his hands into black charred stubs as he tried to control the wild earthward spin of his plane. His screams stopped when he was forced to take another breath in order to continue. Instead of air, his lungs filled with smoke and fire; mercifully he was dead four seconds before his aircraft disintegrated into a cloud of smoke and fire as it plowed into the field of ripening sugar beets below. Three others of his group shared his fate before the next ten seconds passed. The tankers and Panzergrenadiers below cheered as the Luftwaffe at least paid off a few of the bastards.
Langer pulled himself up from the sheltering earth and kicked Gus in the ass with the boot toe.
"All right, hero, get up and let's see what damages have been done."
Calling for Teacher and the others to join them, they checked their Panther. Luckily, only a near miss had gone off by them and there was no major damage, only a couple of bogie wheels that would have to be replaced and, a section of tread. The rest of the day was spent burying the dead and gathering up the separate parts of those who had been blown into bits and burying all the pieces together. They had long since stopped trying to match parts up with the proper owners. . . .
It was 1 July. With nightfall, Langer, Gus and the others settled down into the comfortable bunker they had appropriated from the previous occupants, who were now some ten miles distant, and began their interminable game of cards with Gus cheating as usual, but doing it so badly he usually lost anyway, so the others never let on they knew what he was doing. At ten hundred hours, Langer told them it was time to call it quits. They would have to work their asses off the next few days to get the tank in shape and familiarize themselves with it. Their previous mode of transportation, the old reliable Mark IV, had long since gone to that great scrap heap in the sky. Surely there was a Nordic Valhalla for all the good German tanks that died for the Reich and the Führer. Langer took the first watch even though they were well behind the front. Too many times units had been caught with their pants down when Ivan would make one of the unexpected lunges and a group of T-34s would come raging on them in the dark. At close quarters, the 76 mms they mounted could even take out one of the new Tigers that Doctor Porsche, their inventor, was so proud of.
Propping himself on the commander's seat, Langer leaned half out of the hatch and checked the MG-34, which he had scrounged earlier and mounted. Dragging deep on the cigaret butt he held cupped in his hands, Langer studied the moonlit countryside, now so quiet, broken only by the sounds of a man snoring or sentry cursing quietly as he stumbled in the dark.
"Soon." The feeling was there and Langer had learned to believe his intuitions. This would be a big one; all the earmarks were there.
The long lines of infantry men moving up into positions to their left, trains by the hundreds bringing in the new tanks, and replacement stockpiles of munitions and supplies being built up in the rear. Reaching into the pocket of his camouflaged jacket, he took out a small bottle of white tablets, shook two out and popped them. . . . Benzedrine. One of the marvels of modern pharmaceutical developments. Soon, soon. They would be back in it. Ivan had gotten a lot smarter in the last year and a lot tougher. One thing was certain, hell waited out there in the dark.
The sleeping forms of his crew were only blacker masses in the darkness. Each had found a spot that suited him and curled up for the night wrapped in blankets like cocoons, the soft sounds of their shifting in their sleep were familiar; each had his own sounds. Teacher breathed through his mouth with small rasping gurgling noises and Gus, the walking bear, mumbled constantly in his dreams about booze, money or cunt. They were spaced out around their tank far enough from each other that if a lucky round from a Russian gun fell on them, they wouldn't all be taken out. Practical, professional men, they knew their business—which was death— the giving and the taking.
To the rear, working by the light of an oil lamp, Field Marshal Eric von Manstein poured over his charts and reports. Was anything omitted? Had all precautions been taken? His aristocratic face was a study in the best of the Prussian aristocracy.
It was all there, on the maps—pencil marks and lines that would spell victory or disaster. This was the trump card. Here they must win. All the reserves that Germany could scrounge were being thrown in. There was little left in the Fatherland to draw upon and what he had now, though the numbers were right, was not so good as the material he started out with on Operation Barbarossa two years ago.
They crossed the Russian frontier and raced to the gates of Moscow. Would it be enough? 900,000 men, 10,000 pieces of artillery and heavy mortars, 3,700 tanks and assault guns along with the Luftwaffe's contribution of 2,500 aircraft. This was it. In his heart he knew that if they failed here, the war could well be lost. There was no way to replace the men and materials. Italy had been stripped even though the Allied invasion of Sicily was imminent. He mused over what the British and Americans would run into if they had to face his army on the beaches along with the defenses that were already there. . . .
One hundred miles away. Marshal Zhukov was covering the same ground with General Rokossovsky, commander of Army Central. . . . Comrade Ivanov (Stalin) ordered there must be no failure.
"We have committed everything to this battle. We are thankful the Fascist pigs do not know our man in Switzerland who has kept us so well informed on their Operation Citadel. For months now, we have made every effort to prepare the greatest trap in the history of warfare. It will make Stalingrad look like child's play."
Pointing to the charts on the field table, Zhukov, with his peasant's face so much in contrast to the fine features of his German counterpart, ordered Rokossovsky to go over his preparations—1,337,000 men, 20,000 pieces of artillery, rocket launchers and heavy mortars, 3,306 tanks and assault guns, 2,650 aircraft.
On the central front alone they had 5,100 mines per mile of front already laid and every day there would be more. Three thousand miles of trenches and antitank ditches were dug, their defenses were in six belts, one behind the other. Each would become successively stronger if the belt in front was forced to withdraw. They would then add their strength to the belt behind them and so forth until they bled the enemy dry. Zhukov gave one of his rare smiles, showing strong yellow teeth.
"It is enough. July 5—they will come and we are ready."
Teacher shook the others awake. Grumbling, they rolled out of their blankets, each in his own manner. Some had to take a leak, others needed a smoke to wake up. Langer sent Gus over to the mobile kitchen to get their morning rations. He had a knack for scrounging that was second to none, especially when he scared the shit out of the cooks by playing with a live grenade while he waited in a line that rapidly diminished when they saw him take the pin out and then reinsert it again and again, almost dropping the damned thing more than once. Gus did indeed have a way about him. For fun, he would set a concussion grenade on top of his steel helmet and stand there while it exploded. Knowing, as the old timers did, that explosives follow the line of least resistance and ninety-eight percent of the blast effect went straight up from the steel helmet, the worst he got was a ringing in the ears.