As the German heavies crossed, none of the lighter vehicles had survived, his command fired a salvo into their midst. Then it was utter chaos, tanks fighting at point-blank range. The tank destroyers, German and Russian, died first, their limited traverse guns being a deadly limitation in this knife-fight. Ulyanov didn't even know how long it lasted, only that he survived when the divisional commander lead his reserve tank battalion into the fight and the 45 Washingtons turned the tide.
“Driver Forward. We're in the lead and by God and Saint Aleksandr we'll lead.” The survivors of Ulyanov's group, six T-10s and two T-55s swept forward, over the ridgeline of Phase Line Boris and down into the valley. Ulyanov still had three turnips, one pickle and four cucumbers on board and he was damned if they would be wasted. Again, some of the Germans tried to surrender but the Russians had no time for them. They crushed them under their tracks.
Down they swept, and up the ridge to Phase Line Christian. By the time they reached the top their T-10 was overheating badly and they'd shot their bolt. Anya maneuvered the tank into a hull-down position and her voice came defiantly over the intercom. “That's it. Overheated. Move another meter and she'll seize up.” In her compartment, she doubled up in her seat, sobbing with the exhaustion that had suddenly caught up with her.
The other T-10s would be the same but it didn't matter for Ulyanov could see something he'd never believed he would. The SS-Wiking Division had broken and was running. Below Phase Line Christian was a mass of vehicles, soft-skins, towed and self-propelled artillery, heading for the ridge marked Phase Line Demeter and, they hoped, safety. Only the Washingtons were already passing through the tine of stalled T-10s to hound and harry the Germans just as Cossack cavalry had once hounded and harried Napoleon's retreating Grande Armée. Ulyanov squeezed off HE round after HE round at the fleeing enemy until his rack was empty. Then it happened.
At last, at long last, the sun broke though the morning overcast. Its light interacted with the smoke of the burning vehicles to fill the battlefield with a sulphurous yet strangely comforting yellow glow, reminding him of a gas-lit window seen through an evening fog.
The sight suddenly filled Ulyanov with inspiration. Standing in the turret of his tank he drew an icon from his pocket, actually a picture of one torn from an American magazine, the National Geographic. It was folded and dog-eared now but he held it up over his head like the priceless relic that, to him, it was. As the Russian armor surged past him, his shout was, somehow, carried on the divisional radio net.
“REJOICE DEFENDERS OF THE RUSSIAN LAND!”
Chapter Nine Scoring Points
Alekszejevka Oblast, south of the Don River, Russia
The previous night had been terrible. The German women had known “it” was coming, ever since the Russian Army had broken through the border defenses but, by an unspoken agreement, had carefully avoided discussing or even mentioning “it”. The Russian women had been more forthright. 'Better raped by a Russian than loved by a German' had been one common phrase. The Russian Army had arrived the previous afternoon, first the heavy tanks and mechanized infantry had passed through Alekszejevka, setting up a defense line for the night to the south and west. Then, the infantry had followed them and they'd stayed in the village.
The actions of the German women had been varied. A few had fought desperately but they'd only succeeded in proving that even a desperate women couldn't fight trained and battle-hardened soldiers. They'd been beaten into submission, now some were dead and the rest were badly injured. Some, most, had tried to divorce themselves from what was happening, tried to isolate their minds in a private place far away and so save their sanity. They'd tried to insulate themselves from the groups of soldiers who'd come for them hour after hour throughout the night.
Elsa, Margrafin of Alekszejevka, had been one who'd tried that. She was hurt inside, bleeding and sick but she had survived. So far. A few other German women had copied the Russians, put bread and salt on the table and waited to accept the inevitable. It hadn't quite saved them but when the first group of Russians had finished, they'd left guards on the doors to make sure these women were not attacked again.
Then, in the morning, the entire population of the village had been herded out into the open. They'd been searched. Men and women with their blood groups tattooed on their arms and any who'd been foolish enough to keep their Nazi Party membership cards were taken away, pushed up against a barn wall and machine-gunned. The bodies were still over there. The Russian villagers had been told to go home but the Germans had been kept out in the open, the men and women separated from each other. Now they were waiting while their homes were looted.
The men were taking machines, clocks, valuables, even light bulbs. The female soldiers were taking the German women’s clothes and other personal things. The Margrafin saw one woman, with a rifle and telescopic sight hanging over her shoulder, struggling with boxes and a pile of clothes taken from her home. She even recognized her own wedding dress, now the property of that female sniper. Elsa, once Margrafin of Alekszejevka, hated her.
Colonel Tony Evans sat in his radio-jeep and tried not to think on what was going on around him. After he'd been shot down, he'd been assigned to forward air controller duty until a new Su-7 was delivered for him. He'd been with the infantry ever since and, although he'd arrived this morning, it was obvious what had happened the night before. Anyway, it didn't take imagination, it had been the same in every village the Russian Army had taken. The authorities even rotated units so that everyone got their chance. He shook his head, the Marines had a motto, “No better friend, no worse enemy” but the Russians took both parts to the ultimate extreme.
He'd seen some of the German women appeal to the Russian female soldiers for protection, only to have the Russian girls laugh in their faces and promise to come and watch next time the men raped them. Yet he couldn't blame them, the war had gone on for seventeen - almost eighteen - years. Two generations had been butchered, their lives stolen by the invaders and the chances for any of the women to have a normal life after this were bleak. It was natural for the women to be bitter towards the invaders who'd stolen their hopes for a family and a future. Anyway, after what he'd seen of how the Germans had treated the Russians it was hard to find any sympathy for them.
“Grazhdanin Sniper-Sergeant, may I offer some assistance?” Evans had seen one of the women soldiers struggling with a bulky pile of loot, her rifle and some boxes.
The Russian Army even provided a special parcel service so that the Frontniki could send loot back to their families. The front newspapers had carried a story about a postal clerk who'd stolen from one such box and had been shot as a result. Even so, the woman was looking at him with suspicion and wariness in case he wanted to take some of her treasures. Evans smiled “Bratischka, please be reassured, I do not look my best in a bra and panties.” The woman laughed and relaxed. She'd seen the American flag on the shoulder of his uniform, everybody knew the Americans were rich and didn't need to loot.
“Thank you Gospodin Colonel. I would be most grateful for some help.” She unloaded the pile on the hood of the jeep and started to unfold the cardboard boxes. The wedding dress was first, obviously it was her prize catch. Another Russian girl hoping against hope that her loot would help her find a husband. Evans stopped her.
“Bratishka, the cardboard is thin and may get damaged. If so, the fabric of your dress may be harmed. Let us put some other things in first so they will pad your dress and protect it.”