“Hauptsturmführer! Don’t shoot! Hauptsturmführer von Schroif… it’s me… Hauptscharführer Rubbal.”
Without having fully returned to his senses, Hans gingerly pushed open the hatch. He was greeted by the smiling face of SS-Hauptscharführer Rubbal.
“Rubbal, how on earth did you manage to survive that in a Kübelwagen?”
“I did… but the Kübelwagen didn’t. The crew behind me was kind enough to offer me shelter. Is everything alright, Hauptsturmführer…? You look shaken.”
Hans von Schroif was not a man taken to crude shows of affection, but he jumped up out of the hatch and hugged the gnarly figure of Hauptscharführer Rubbal. As he embraced the stunned engineer, wild thoughts ran through his brain. “Defeat, death, humiliation! How dare he allow the notion to enter his mind. This tank’s astonishing resilience, its highly-engineered ability to withstand the worst the Soviets could throw at it, this… this… changed everything…”
“I’m afraid the engine’s overheated,” stated the Hauptscharführer, pointing to the immobilised tank behind them. “Unfortunately, there is not much that I can do here. We need to get it back to the workshop area, so that I can attempt some real work on it.”
“Along with the other two,” smiled Hans von Schroif.
“You mean…?”
“Yes, SS-Hauptscharführer, you are presently perched on the only active Tiger on the Eastern Front! However, if it is your assessment that repairs cannot be effected here, then it is best that you return to the workshop area and wait for us there. You are too valuable to be endangered out here.”
“I need to. I’ve got to get together the resources to tow three stricken tanks, Hauptsturmführer. I don’t know how I’ll do it yet, sir, but don’t worry, I soon will!”
Hauptscharführer Rubbal was a wonderfully reassuring man to have on the team. Many times Hans von Schroif had found himself in so-called impossible situations, and each time Hauptscharführer Rubbal had managed to extricate not just the tank, but the crew too. Many times there was not even a germ of an idea as to how he would achieve it, just certain knowledge that it could be done.
It was now an act of faith in Rubbal. Each of the Tigers was equipped with a purpose-designed demolition charge, fitted by the commander’s hatch, and von Schroif was determined not to use it. He believed in Rubbal, he believed in the Möbelpackwagen, he believed in his crew, and he believed in himself.
Dimitri Korsak was another man possessed of strong reserves of self-belief. However, his first impression of what these new Tigers had just survived, almost an entire arsenal of anti-tank weaponry, was galling. These were not the usual flimsy fascist toys, built along the usual German lines, paying attention to the comfort of their crew. These were powerful and formidable foes. How on earth was he going to deal with them? He had no option; he was going to have to send in the T-34s he had requisitioned from Meretskov.
Even though the system of mental fortifications he had constructed around his own abilities and self-belief were ironclad, a tiny stray and unwelcome thought slipped past its well-guarded perimeter and into his brain. What if the T-34s, with their 400 metre range disparity, could not get close enough? Even if they did get close enough and, worse still, were unable to silence the monsters, then their failure would be his failure. He knew exactly what the consequences of that would be.
There were too many unknowns here, and Meretskov had not allocated him all the T-34s he had asked for, but he could not go back to Beria and complain about the lack of support and the uncooperative behaviour of Meretskov. He had been given a task◦– capture at least one of the Tigers for evaluation◦– and the task was given to him on the presumption that he would carry it out. Of all the options open to him, failure was not one of them.
Hans von Schroif surveyed the heights, looking for the slightest movement, but saw none. How would this game of chess play out? What options were open to the Soviet commander? He couldn’t move his artillery any closer. There had been no indication of Soviet air superiority, so any threat from the air could be shunted back down the list of probabilities. So that left retreat, tanks◦– did he have any armoured support?◦– or something else. There was always something else…
However, Hans could, he felt, also allow himself the luxury of thinking that the Soviets had run out of alternatives. Had things not changed demonstrably? For the first time since the first days of Barbarossa, he could honestly say that he felt at an advantage, as a result of this fine new tank. The 88 mm gun and the extra armour gave him a new confidence.
Then he corrected himself. How many dead men believed themselves to have an advantage just before the final blow came? And so he returned to thinking about what that “something else” the Soviet Commander may have up his sleeve might be.
“SS-Panzeroberschütze Wendorff, order the Mark IIIs to escort the SS-Hauptscharführer back to the assembly area. Have the infantry go with them, but order them to double back and take up a position below that last ridge.”
Hans then turned his attention back to the hamlet, unable to filter out the cries and screams of the wounded, who still lay unattended. “No German soldier would ever be treated like this,” he thought to himself. Despite these considerations, the operational aspect of this hamlet and the area behind it played on his mind. There was at least one emplacement in the trees behind it, but, with three tanks inactive, did it justify the risk of moving off through this marshy ground?
In the end, he rationalised it down to this… Transmission and engine failure◦– these were the factors that a good crew and especially a good driver held some sway over◦– these were not accidents of fate or design◦– these were the responsibilities of the crew. So, this was the question◦– did he have enough faith in his crew to justify any further offensive action?
“SS-Panzerschütze, we are going for a short drive. Take her up to 4,000 rpm. 12 o’clock!”
“Jawohl!” chirped Bobby, never happier than when they were on the move. Moving out, they were just picking up speed when Hans noticed a machine gun crew popping up from what appeared to be a slit trench. And then another. And another. One had to admire the guts◦– or was it the stupidity?◦– of these Soviets. Did they have any idea of what they were facing? He wasn’t interested in these positions though, his focus was on the artillery emplacement behind them. Hans pulled down the hatch and prepared himself. He could see Otto readying the co-axial machine gun.
“SS-Panzerschütze, save the ammunition. The tracks will take care of them.”
The tank then sped up, heading straight for the trench. The machine guns opened up, but harmless would be too strong a word to describe their effect as they popped off the Tiger’s steel shell like so many bits of cracked wheat. One of the machine gun crews then upped and ran from the trench, only for a fusillade of shots to ring out from behind them, cutting them down as a sign of brutal Soviet discipline.
Bobby could make out the look of fear on the remaining Soviet soldiers’ faces as he barrelled the tank towards them. “Why,” he thought to himself, “did the Ivans believe that a shallow dirt trench would offer any kind of protection?” He had done this many times, come to a halt over the trench, spun the tank, and just ground the poor bastards back into Mother Earth, and turned them into beer! He smiled at the gruesome symmetry of it. Anyway, Elvira needed to be blooded…
Just as he approached the trench, he hit the brakes and spun her around. Even through the hull, he heard the pitiful screams of the first machine gun crew as they were turned to bloody mush beneath him.