“Armor-piercing, Hofinger! Target approach estimated at four hundred fifty meters. Kurowski, traverse left forty degrees. Naumann!”
Naumann sighted and adjusted the gun mount wheels by slight increments. “Target.”
“Fire!”
The round struck the oncoming tank at the precise moment its 76 mm cannon fired. The crew heard the projectile whistle over the bow. The T-34 burned. One of the Russian crewmen escaped out of the turret hatch, leaped off, and ran for safety within a shell crater. The next tank had come to a full stop to concentrate its gun layering from a stationary and thus more accurate position. Yet another tank had exited the ravine, one Pieper hadn’t seen, and fired as it approached. The shell fell off target, but the distraction was effective. Pieper turned his attention back to the other tank, which had advanced to a distance of six hundred meters. It stopped, fired, and scored a goal. The shell struck a glancing blow to the armored apron and burst. The tank resumed its advance.
“Enemy tank five hundred meters,” Naumann called out nervously.
Pieper waited until the assault gun and the crew settled down after the shock of the blow.
“Do it now,” he said, sounding almost relaxed. The Sturmgeschutz III’s 75 mm gun barked and scored. The Russian tank let out an enormous cloud of white smoke, as though it was a kettle on the boil, and burst into flame. The other tanks stopped firing and hung back, closer to the ravine, outside the range of a killing shot. It quickly became evident to the gun commander as to why. A brawl was taking place in the trenches. Despite the constant hammering of the machine guns and rifle fire, Red troops had penetrated the company’s defensive network. The radio squawked. Wilms requested fire in the immediate vicinity of the command bunker located in the center of the third platoon’s ellipse. There was no other alternative but to oblige him; with speed and accuracy, Naumann and Hofinger sent out four high-explosive rounds. Then Pieper saw something through the periscope that caused him alarm. A howling swarm of Russians climbed out of shell craters and abandoned communication trenches from within the battalion command defense perimeter and ran toward the assault gun. They had been working their way down since the first attack and waited patiently for this opportunity, Pieper thought. He had to credit the Russians for their mastery of infiltration, in broad daylight and in the midst of an ongoing battle.
Several of the escort grenadiers were now out in the open in a desperate attempt to hold the Russians off. Kurowski backed up and traversed the vehicle.
“We’re going to get swamped!” he shouted, over the noise of the whining motor.
Hofinger grabbed the MG34, opened the loader’s hatch, inserted the weapon into the port of the gun shield, and fired off a long burst. Pieper followed with a machine pistol from the command cupola and blazed away at the mob that surrounded the vehicle. A grenade was tossed and bounced onto the roof, and as both men ducked below to safety, it detonated. Pieper wasn’t fast enough; a piece of shrapnel struck him in the face. Hofinger resumed shooting. Over twenty Russians lay dead or dying. The remainder of the mob slackened as more grenadiers streamed out of a nearby trench. Within minutes the assault party had been mopped up. Now that the rush to disable the Stug III had obviously failed, the last few Russians dropped their weapons and raised their arms in surrender. The grenadiers were not interested in taking any prisoners at the moment. Their blood was up, and without hesitation, they cut them all down.
Naumann and Hofinger returned to the gun. As fast as they could load, target, and fire, a barrage was laid down selectively, in and around the open lanes separating the platoon strong points. It seemed to have worked. The Russians started to retreat back to the ravine or the nearest shell hole that afforded some cover.
Naumann stopped firing and turned to the gun commander, who hadn’t moved from his seat since the grenade went off.
“Christ, you’ve been hit!”
A torrent of blood poured down Pieper’s face and stained the front of his waist-length tunic. Naumann stepped away from the gun and opened the stowage box that contained the first aid supplies. He inspected the wound before applying the field dressing and dabbed the excess blood with a wad of gauze. The shrapnel had split the end of Pieper’s nose apart. No fragments had entered the nasal cavity; at least, Pieper did not feel as if any had.
“Don’t cover my mouth over with that bandage. I still have orders to give,” Pieper said, as the gunner dressed the wound.
After he tied off the bandage, Naumann rooted around the kit for an ampoule. The gun commander became excited. “No, not that! I have to remain alert.” Instead, he allowed Naumann to administer aspirin, of which he took several. After rinsing the blood from his mouth, Pieper swallowed the tablets with a long draught from the water bottle. He was lucky. Although requiring stitches, the wound would be characterized as superficial. He knew he would look quite a sight after the surgeon was through with him. Hofinger spoke up from the radio. “Tanks exerting pressure in First Company sector.”
“How many?” Pieper asked.
“Three. A KV1 is involved.”
First Company, located on the left flank was the weakest link of the battalion; so Pieper had been informed by Captain Raeder. Apparently, the resistance those men were putting up was more than what the Red infantry could handle on its own.
“Take us over, Kurowski, and take the long way.”
The driver understood what Pieper meant. He would withdraw from the battalion command post strong point for a distance of half a kilometer and then flank north toward the lane that ran through the minefields, then continue directly over to the first company battle station. Pieper asked the gunner if he would care to observe from the command hatch. Naumann took the field glasses and climbed up. Five wrecks burned, evidence of their handiwork. He refocused on the dust of several tanks that were returning to the balka—possibly to refuel, he thought. He could not make an exact count. There were now three they had to contend with. And then there was one more, still out of range, that dominated the horizon. It sat like some inscrutable beast, engorged on a feast of blood, smoke, and death. Naumann wondered when it would finally make its move.
Angst pressed his face into the dark soil, the fingers of each hand clenched tightly. He wanted to burrow deep; become a worm; reside in the cool darkness of the earth, unseen and safe from the horrors exposed under a relentless sun. He was alive but could not fathom how that was possible. He turned over, on to his back, and examined his body. Whole. The left sleeve of his tunic and the shirt was ripped. Under the fabric was a jagged tear in the flesh. Minor, yet it burned like a branding iron. The others? What about the others? he thought. He slid the carbine out from the loophole and crawled from the rifle pit. Nearby, Paul Hermann lay unnaturally, arms and legs bent at odd angles, his clothes now bloody rags. He had been peppered with submachine gun–fire when the Russians swept over their position. They were so close; Angst could smell the odor of sweat and tobacco that clung to their uniforms. He remembered throwing grenades, shooting and screaming, a desperate act. And then nothing. His mind had gone blank. He crawled past the dead boy to the next rifle pit, where Schmidt lay curled up in the fetal position, his teeth chattering.