Rolling behind a small drift of snow, Meier took in the scene, swiftly appreciating the danger of the untackled fire.
The turret was moving slowly, electrical traverse having been lost, its weight only shifted by the hand traverse mechanism. None the less, Jarome sought out the aggressor that had wounded them so badly.
The Tiger shuddered as the main gun launched another shell downrange.
Meier couldn’t see the end result, but the fact that the turret turned to seek other targets was a clear statement that, whatever it had been, it was now dead.
In his peripheral vision, he could see one of the Panzer IV’s smoking, its gun barrel at the sort of angle that indicated severe damage. His hearing picked up the crack of the other 75mm’s at work.
Failed by both those senses up close, it was the odour of his attacker that granted him the micro-second that saved his life.
He turned, just as the PPSh came lashing down on him, missing his head and smashing into his shoulder.
The brutal snap of his collar bone and his scream of agony as sharp bones pushed out through soft flesh were heard inside ‘Lohengrin’, even above the sounds of battle that overtook the inside of a tank in combat.
Rolling away as best he could, Meier’s eyes filled with tears of pain, making his vision go misty and imprecise, making his survival less likely as the Soviet soldier attacked again.
The Walther spoke, missing by a country mile, and the PPSh, redirected, smashed into Meier’s right hand, accompanied by more sounds of breaking bone.
Again Meier screamed in pain.
Lying prone in the snow, his right side battered and broken, he lashed out with his foot and caught the attacker on the left leg, the heavy boot perfectly connecting with the Soviet soldier’s kneecap.
This time, the howls of pain were not Meier’s.
The Russian rolled sideways, his fingers searching for a round magazine to fit in his weapon, determined to gun down the SS bastard who had wrecked his knee.
Meier hadn’t realised the sub-machine gun had no magazine, and quickly scrabbled left-handed for his dropped Walther.
It was a simple race, with life as the prize and death for the runner-up.
The Russian won as the big magazine slid into place and he levelled the PPSh.
Meier knew he had lost, even as his fingers found the cold metal of his pistol.
The sub-machine gun rattled and Meier screamed in pure fear.
He screamed again as the riddled corpse of the dead Russian soldier dropped onto his legs.
A grinning Köster flopped in beside his driver and swapped the now empty MP-40 for the enemy weapon.
“Stop squealing like a fucking girl!”
Shock rolled over Meier instantly, his limbs shaking, his lips trembling, his bladder control lost.
“Scheisse, Klaus!”
He hadn’t appreciated how bad his friend had been hurt.
Instinctively, Köster looked towards ‘Lohengrin’ for support and immediately saw the gentle waft of smoke rising from the rear.
“Keep your head down, Klaus. Just going to put the fire out. I’ll be right back!”
Meier never heard a word of it, his mind fuddled with the excruciating pain of his injuries.
Köster moved gingerly onto the rear of the tank and rapped out a pattern of three and three on the circular hatch. It opened and a pistol was stuck in his face, behind which was the earnest face of Schultz.
“Klaus is wounded. Engine compartment’s on fire. Get Erwin to hit the auto extinguisher system, but I’m also tackling it.”
The growing smoke caused Koster to cough violently.
“You three have to sit tight and cover or we’ll lose our tank. Kapische?”
“I’ll leave the hatch unpinned, Oberscharfuhrer.”
Köster opened the large rear turret bin and fished out two tetrachloride extinguishers, one in the ambush colour the Tiger had once been painted in, the other a gaudy red, plus a pair of dirty asbestos gloves
The auto extinguisher system had been fired and the effect was immediate, allowing him to pull up the offside grilles, albeit gingerly, as they were extremely hot.
A few bullets pinged off ‘Lohengrin’s’ armour, those responsible immediately drawing angry fire from the machine-gunners, both in the Tiger and the advancing Panzer IV’s.
The fire had reduced to nothing more than oily smoke, but Köster waited to ensure it was no longer an issue before returning to Meier’s side.
Suddenly the whole situation changed as something extremely large landed fifty metres to the Tiger’s front, sending up a veritable fountain of earth and snow.
‘Scheisse!’
Not only Köster had that particular thought, as the Soviets redoubled their efforts to push south, and threw in their 203mm artillery against the plum stationary target of the crippled Tiger.
From his position on the rear hull, Rudi Köster could see a wave of Soviet armour advancing again, moving out to the left and right, avoiding the central area where ‘Lohengrin’ sat.
Another Panzer IV fireballed as a total of four shots struck home in as many seconds, leaving no chance for the crew to draw another breath before they were immersed in flames.
“Achtung! Tanks to both flanks!”
The turret moved lazily, intent on engaging those to the right, where both right flank Panzer IV’s had been knocked out.
An 88mm shell flashed downrange, glancing off the side of the lead T-34s turret as a 203mm landed nearer still and rocked the crippled Legion tank.
Grabbing two pouches of ammo from the turret bin, Köster rapped three and three and pulled open the hatch.
The shockwave of a solid shell hitting the mantlet lent additional weight to the hatch, carrying it to the point where it struck the hull, but with Köster’s fourth finger in between the two pieces of unyielding metal.
He screamed, so much so that the faces of both Jarome and Schultz jostled for position at the hatch to find out what had happened.
“Ahh, Fuck!”
The smashed finger hung by the thinnest of morsels, the bone turned to dust by the heavy impact. The little finger, whilst it had escaped being trapped, lay at a ninety degree angle to normal, the main joint dislocated by the force of the impact.
As Köster held his ruined hand, the Tiger took another hit, which again flew off harmlessly.
The 88mm spoke again.
The target did not burn, but the only man that emerged hobbled away, leaving a trail of red in the driven snow.
Wintzinger’s machine-gun rattled, and his voice screamed an urgent warning.
Rolling to the nearside of the turret, Köster snatched up the MP-40 and fired into the men running directly at ‘Lohengrin’.
The moment was so intense that the pain caused by the recoil of the weapon was subdued by the imperative of survival.
A combination of his and Wintzinger’s efforts bowled the enemy group over, leaving half of them writhing and moaning on the ground, clutching at ruined bodies.
Köster reached for one of the pouches, intent on reloading, forgetful in the heat of the moment.
His loose finger hung on the rough canvas and the movement of his arm was sufficient to cause the final piece of attachment to snap, which in turn caused his hand to slip, and he caught the dislocation on the end of a magazine.
He screamed.
This time only Schultz stuck his enquiring head out.
Jarome shouted in anger.
“Get out of the fucking way, you idiot!”
Schultz shifted quickly, permitting the gunner to get his shot away.
The secondary explosion was impressive as whatever it was disintegrated in an instant.
Rolling off the tank, Köster dropped into the snow just as another of the large-calibre artillery shells came close, some of the snow and earth falling on him and the comatose Meier, now leaking blood from a head wound.