To his amazement, he saw one T-34 burst into flames, and then, soon after, another’s turret blown up into the air. How could this be? None of the three tanks had commenced firing yet. Then he realised that these two T-34s had been picked off by the fourth Tiger, the one he had left behind◦– at a range of almost 3,000 metres!
His spirits buoyed, and it was not long before the other three Tigers joined in. Hull-down, man and machine worked in what seemed like a furious but simultaneously serene harmony, loosing off shell after shell, and scoring hit after hit! Before the Soviet tanks could even get in range, they were blown apart or put out of business. One after another, with methodical precision, the onrushing enemy armour was turned from deadly harbingers of doom to lifeless smoking hulks!
Von Schroif knew that this was, in part, due to Soviet tactics. “When would they ever learn?”
A frantic charge to get close may have worked against some of the older panzers, but not these new Tigers, not these new “Princes of the Steppe”. Within twenty minutes it was all over. The full Soviet attack had been blunted. Through the smoke and flame, the only audible sound was the laughing and joking of the grenadiers as they made their way confidently through what, until recently, had been a battlefield.
A strong guard was placed on each disabled Tiger. The rest of the party withdrew to refit and tax their tired brains for a solution to this new dilemma. No one wanted to destroy them, but, whatever happened, the stranded Tigers could not fall into Russian hands. It was now a race against time.
Hans von Schroif stared out over the assembly area, noticing smoke rising from the field kitchens, the distant sound of music, the snorers, the dreamers, and the active workers◦– those that could not allow themselves to stop, for fear of coming face to face with what they had just seen, heard or done… If the heat of battle was one way of determining a man’s character, then the assembly area presented another. In battle, a man was revealed by his actions. In the supply area, by his inaction.
Yes, there were essential acts of maintenance and training, but the overall job of the supply area was to take broken and exhausted men and prepare them for the next step in this dance of death. Replenishment and revitalisation were the order of the day, and every man dealt with it differently. Some slept, some talked, some sang… some ate because they were hungry, others because they joked that this meal would be their last… and some could not eat at all. Those that managed to sleep, von Schroif considered the luckiest of all. Especially during these all-too-short Russian summer nights, when Ivan seemed to enjoy getting up early and turning to his guns.
Letter writing was something that he, along with others, grew to hate. How could you possibly describe what you had just gone through and witnessed? Letters home were a deception at best, a lie, a work of art. At worst, when writing to next of kin about the loss of a comrade… How could you honestly describe the manner of death? Could you mention incineration, the spilled guts, or decapitation? How could you write that a son or loved one died any other death than that of a hero? To Hans von Schroif, war itself was preferable…
He then looked out over the ditch his crew had dug for themselves. This was normal practice when not sleeping in the tank itself, to carve out a little trench and then drive the tank over it for protection. The only member of the crew who refused to sleep outside the tank was Otto Wohl◦– Elvira was now the latest in a long line of metallic mistresses!
Von Schroif had noticed that Wohl had not yet carried out his prescribed task◦– replacing any expended shells◦– which was unusual for one so scrupulous. It was a laborious and arduous task. Had Wohl reached the limit of his physical reserves? Von Schroif thought he had better investigate.
Thankfully, on entering the tank, he was heartened to find his proud loader hunkered down in the loading bay, busy scribbling away with pen and paper.
“Letter home, SS-Panzerschütze?”
“It is a missive of sorts, SS-Hauptsturmführer, but not so much to my former family as to my new family.”
Von Schroif could have questioned him further, but he smiled and gently reminded him of his duties.
“Apologies, Hauptsturmführer,” said Wohl, before adding rather cryptically, “This endeavour on which I am embarked is not a form of idleness, nor a recreation, but hopefully, in itself, essential to our efforts here on the front.”
Then, seeing the slightly perplexed look on his commander’s face, he added, “You will, of course, be the first to see the fruits of this labour, which I have called ‘Project Elvira’ . Now, where are those shells?”
Von Schroif then went over to tap Michael Knispel on the shoulder to wake him for sentry duty. Whilst doing so, he couldn’t help but notice Karl Wendorff looking particularly pensive, sitting wide awake against a nearby tree.
“May I join you, SS-Panzeroberschütze?” asked von Schroif.
Wendorff nodded, his dark demeanour adding to von Schroif’s concern. Von Schroif sat beside his radio operator, choosing to remain silent, in order to give Wendorff the chance to talk first.
“We are going to return for those tanks,” said Wendorff, which unsettled von Schroif, as the manner in which it was delivered suggested more an answer than a question.
“I have not been briefed yet, but I imagine those may be our orders.”
“Hauptsturmführer, do you believe that a man can foresee his own death?”
“Yes, I have foreseen myself die many times over!” joked von Schroif, feeling that the implied darkness in Wendorff’s mood needed some lightening.
“I dreamed of St Liborius last night. You remember, in Paderborn, the patron saint of a good death.”
Von Schroif was unable to reply. The seriousness in Wendorff’s tone precluded an answer that was unsympathetic or glib. Von Schroif was used to lifting his men’s spirits, but the depth and weight of this despondency was something that was starting to alarm him.
“Would you call me a good friend, Hauptsturmführer?” continued Wendorff.
“You are not going to suggest that you dreamed you died in my arms, SS-Panzeroberschütze?”
“I know what dreams are, sir, but this was a vision with far more… substance.”
“SS-Panzeroberschütze, I really think you should get some sleep.”
“Sleep is coming soon enough, Hauptsturmführer.”
“Wendorff, please stop this.”
Just then, an adjutant of Major List walked up to them. “SS-Hauptsturmführer, Major List would like to meet with you immediately.”
Von Schroif stood up. Before leaving, he whispered to Wendorff, “Not a word of this to anyone.”
The ashen-faced radio operator did not even look him in the eye. His only acknowledgement was a slight shrug of his already heavily-stooped shoulders.
Another who saw his own impending demise was Walter Lehmann. In his case though, his vision was far more concrete than a dream. He would have liked to say it came as a relief, but RSHA Kriminalassistent Walter Lehmann, former SS man and now Soviet spy, was a man who had made his decisions as career choices. Decisions made in order to further and furnish his already-pampered life, not have it taken away from him before he had time to fully enjoy the fruits of his many deceptions. His heart had sunk when he saw the men from the Abwehr at the door. Strange, he had just been looking admiringly out over Prinz-Albert Strasse from his balcony. Berlin had never looked so beautiful. Funny how one knock on the door could change everything.
Staring out the window at Tirpitzufer, Admiral Canaris weighed up his possible responses to the news that Walter Lehmann was about to be arrested. “If only that damned professor’s wife had got in touch with him and not Oster.” His second-in-command had travelled down the only road open to him. There was no doubt Lehmann would talk. The Old Intriguer had always known that it was a risk to use Lehmann as an ignorant dupe in his grand game. Fat, stupid and unreliable, the piggy-eyed idiot thought his cover intact. Fool! How easy it had been to insert Borgmann as Viper and feed him little titbits to Stenner◦– or as he was now lovingly referred to by his new comrades, Commander Dimitri Korsak.