“Their equipment didn’t do so well through the opening barrage. Before losing contact, Franks called to tell us not to expect any support” Richter explained.
What rotten luck, Angst thought. It always happened, at every moment of crisis—either mortars or artillery were out of ammunition or destroyed, and signal communication was out. “They’re awfully quiet,” he commented.
Halle agreed. “More often than not, they’re hurling threats and obscenities when this close. A minute ago it sounded like they were arguing among themselves.”
“Braun mentioned there were about thirty.”
“Braun’s in a shit-ass panic to come up with that,” Halle said, and laughed nervously. “Try about half that number.”
Angst hoped the grenadier was right and wasn’t trying to convince only himself. He squeezed past and joined Minnesinger further down the trench. The platoon leader’s face had turned a deep, unnatural shade of red due to overexposure to the sun and heat. Richter stared intently at the opposite wall of the trench. Imbedded in the dirt, at eye level, was a small shaving-kit mirror. Any movement down the ten-meter length of trench would be detected.
“Ivan’s right around the corner,” Richter said as Angst came up, not relinquishing his gaze from the mirror. A stick grenade lay beside him.
“What are they waiting for?”
“They’re blind and probably without leadership” Minnesinger said.
“Or they would have been pressed into a move by now,” Richter added.
“My squad is in place,” Angst informed Minnesinger. “The trench to third platoon is covered.”
“Good. Help Ehrling with the machine gun. I don’t want Ivan climbing out and ambushing us after we make our move.”
Angst nodded. Then Halle eased his way further down the trench, followed by Keller, who gripped an MP40. Minnesinger laid out the plan. He and Richter would go in first. Halle would stay close with the grenades, to throw as needed after the opening act. Keller was to provide covering fire with short, continuous bursts. The platoon leader said to Angst, “When you hear the first grenade that will be the signal to open fire with the machine gun. Once Ehrling has it under control, I want you to take up the rear.”
Angst understood. The dreaded moment of anticipation had arrived.
“Remember,” Minnesinger added, “don’t crowd each other, and don’t lag behind. No more than five meters apart.” He took two stick grenades from Halle’s satchel and tucked one in his belt and held the other as he unholstered his pistol. It was time to clean house. Angst returned to the emplacement. Several belts of ammunition had been linked together, and the MG42 stood loaded, with the short bi-pod at the muzzle end set in place. In the space of time it took to unscrew the cap at the end of a stick grenade and pull the fuse cord, the counterattack began. Halle threw the first grenade, and Minnesinger followed immediately with the second. When the explosions occurred, it had the sound of one enormous blast. Then they all crawled down the trench at unbelievable speed, elbows and knees working furiously, helmets bobbing on their heads. They looked like turtles in some mad race. Keller hung back and fired above their heads as the bullets slapped into the wall of dirt where the trench turned sharply at a ninety-degree angle. He stopped shooting to allow Halle to stand up and throw another grenade. Halle threw high, completely out of the trench, and it landed back inside the trench on the far side of the turn. A flawless throw. Smoke and debris vomited out from around the turn. They all followed Richter as he turned the corner and fired long bursts from the Pshagin submachine gun.
The MG42 clattered deafeningly. The long chain of bullets whipped over Angst’s palms as he fed the belt smoothly toward the firing slit. As Ehrling raked the lip of the trench line with enfilade fire, the ground spat up fountains of earth and dust. More grenade explosions came, and the cackle of small arms fire. Between bursts, Ehrling shouted, “I’ve got it now. Go! Go!”
Angst entered the din. Whorls of smoke, shouts, and screams; a mean, sordid fight. He stepped over bodies. Two, and then three more. Uniforms shredded, the flesh dangled like ribbons. He saw something and was about to shoot. It was Keller. Angst put up his carbine. Keller leaned against the trench wall and held his left leg up off the ground, with both hands clasped under the knee. Pale and drawn, he grimaced with excruciating pain. The toe of his boot was missing; only torn leather and pulp remained. The gunfire trailed off. Angry German voices barked Russian words: “Ruki Verch! Ruki Verch!”
“The sons of bitches have given up,” Keller said. He sounded disappointed. “Can you manage on your own?”
“I think so,” Keller said, and started to hop down the trench on his one good leg. The MG42 had stopped shooting, and except for the voices, all had become relatively quiet. Cautiously, Angst proceeded down the trench for another twenty meters, turned another corner, and came upon the rest of the squad. The Russians had been pushed into a knot further down the communication trench. Crammed in the narrow channel, Minnesinger and Halle had their weapons trained on the five remaining Russians, who lay scrunched up, cowering beside and even on top of one another. Richter was on the other side of the group, shouting curses. He shoved the barrel of the Pshagin in the face of one Russian, who flapped his hands wildly and pleaded. Richter found the gestures amusing, but it was evident he was short on mercy and waiting for the word to let loose. Woefully underequipped, some of the prisoners did not wear complete uniforms. Some were without helmets. One was even barefoot, and the soles of his feet were the color of the Ukrainian soil. Well beyond middle age, he spoke for the entire group as he turned from Richter to Minnesinger in desperation, trying to plead their case. Minnesinger listened attentively, if with difficulty, and tossed out a word or two in Russian. Angst had edged in closer beside Halle.
“What’s he saying?”
“The usual, more than likely. How the Bolsheviks forced them into the Red Army at gunpoint.”
“What will we do with them?”
“Shoot ’em, I guess.”
“No one’s going to shoot anybody,” Minnesinger said firmly. “This sorry lot would have surrendered, given the chance, only the old hands among them put up the fight.”
Richter wasn’t convinced. “They all went along for the ride. You saw what they did to Lindenberger. I say, kill all the Bolshevik swine.”
“I said no! Battalion can deal with them. Let’s stash them in the main dugout for now.”
“If they even twitch, I’ll toss a grenade on the whole bunch,” Richter threatened.
Minnesinger gestured with his pistol and barked, “Dveegat’sa! Devai! Devai!”
The Russians twisted and turned themselves about, huddled close to the ground on hands and knees. As Richter poked them along with the submachine gun, they were led to the deeper and more secure part of the strong point, toward the main dugout.
Minnesinger looked around. “Where’s Keller?”
“Wounded. I sent him back,” Angst said.
“What happened?”
“He got shot in the foot.”
Minnesinger made a face. “That’s some excuse.”
Angst did not know how to read the platoon leader’s remark. When they reached the dugout, the prisoners filed in. There was no further need for Angst’s presence, so he returned to his rifle squad and informed them the situation had been brought under control.
“For the time being, at any rate,” Braun muttered anxiously.
As the Stug III chugged toward the first company sector, Naumann observed from the cupola periscope that a KV1 had penetrated deep inside the defensive perimeter. The company command bunker was a shambles of shell craters and plowed earth. Intact but stationary, the KV1 operated both hull and turret machine guns, and its cannon fired high-explosive rounds at nearly point-blank range. Hofinger had completed an inventory of the ordnance that was left: eighteen armor-piercing and eleven high explosive shells. The KV’s turret traversed to three o’clock, and the 76 mm gun erupted at some threat. The smoke and distance had so far obscured the assault gun’s approach. Naumann briefed Pieper of what he saw. The gun commander held his head in his hands while he rested in the seat before the fire control system.