The column of T-34s was soon turned into a confused mass of fiercely burning scrap metal. A few desperate flaming figures emerged from the smoke as they tried to escape the flames, but the jubilant grenadiers now joined in the fray, machine-gunning the escaping crews and taking no prisoners.
Magda’s exhausted crew climbed out of their crippled tank and sat on the front of the vehicle, where they could better enjoy the spectacle. They lit well-earned cigarettes and watched in amusement as one miraculously unharmed Russian appeared and, raising his hands in surrender, jogged towards the German lines. The solid figure of SS-Sturmscharführer Braun, the senior NCO in the battalion, appeared from his muddy hide with fixed bayonet and gestured the frightened Russian towards him.
As the unsuspecting Russian tank man approached, Braun suddenly took a mighty backswing and, in textbook fashion, thrust his bayonet through the startled victim, twisting once and withdrawing with absolute precision. As the Russian fell to the ground, Braun finished his man off with a second thrust which could have come straight from the training ground.
With their bloodlust at its height, the grenadiers gave a heartfelt and spontaneous cheer. In recognition, SS-Sturmscharführer Braun smiled and bowed deeply, as if he was a performer in a Berlin night club.
Hans von Schroif wasn’t the type of man to celebrate during combat, his concept of soldiering was too professional to permit that, but he couldn’t resist a passing smile when he heard his crew cheer their colleagues on.
The primeval bloodlust would take some time to recede and von Schroif was impressed by the calculating manner in which Braun had driven a lesson home to his boys. SS-Sturmscharführer Braun was no parade-ground martinet, he was hard as steel, unmoved by emotion, and he knew that if his boys learned to act in the same way they may all just get out of this mess.
At the sound of a labouring half-track engine, all eyes turned to the crest of the hill. Another cheer, this time stronger, went up from the survivors of the German battle group as the familiar sight of old man Voss’s half-track crested the hill and began to slither and slide down the steep incline, past the wrecked column of T-34s.
Von Schroif suspected that something special must have occurred to bring old man Voss and his Gefechtsstandfahrzeug this far into the combat zone. He marshalled his frazzled nerves in readiness for orders to be given for the next task.
As the commander’s half-track skidded its way past, the grenadiers, ignoring the accompanying shower of mud, cheered and raised their right arms in salute of their veteran commander. Eventually, the command SPW squelched to a halt by the stricken form of Magda.
Von Schroif dismounted in order to greet his commanding officer.
“By God, you’ve had some sport today!” beamed Voss, his craggy features giving way to a fleeting grin.
“That’s one way to put it, sir… a bit of a rougher sport than I’d have liked. I have to report the loss of two Panzerkampfwagen Mark IVs and ten fine comrades,” replied von Schroif.
“That is unfortunate, but that’s war,” came the stern reply from SS-Sturmbannführer Helmut Voss.
“As you say, sir. I’ll get this track repaired and report as soon as I can.”
“You’ll do no such thing. Leave it to the recovery crew. You and your crew must climb aboard. You have been summoned to Rastenburg, immediately. There are to be no delays. My orders are to have you there within forty-eight hours.”
“Rastenburg…? May I be permitted to ask why, Sturmbannführer?”
“No time to wonder why. You must not delay. These orders come right from the top. They must be scrupulously observed. Time is now of the essence. You are wanted in Rastenburg, and I am to see that you get there. Climb aboard, gentlemen.”
“Jawohl!” barked his crew enthusiastically.
Wohl, Wendorff and Junge needed no second invitation and were aboard the half-track in a flash, happy to leave someone else to wrestle with the job of replacing a muddy track in the stinking smoke which arose from burning oil and charred flesh.
Knispel took slightly longer. He ducked back inside the tank for a few moments before emerging with a cloth-covered article which seemed to magically vanish as soon as he was aboard the half-track.
As von Schroif was driven off past the scene of carnage in the crowded SPW, three things struck him as he gazed in bemusement over the smoking, tank-strewn vista. His first thought was more of an observation, his attention drawn to the distant sight of the Russian commander climbing out of the momentarily forgotten KV-1 and standing on the turret, one foot propped on the barrel. The commander took his time and stood briefly surveying the scene of carnage. He removed his cap and mopped his brow.
Through his Zeiss binoculars, von Schroif noted that he was unusually tall, and white-haired, with heavy black eyebrows above clear blue, cold-blooded eyes which seemed to be looking right back at him in particular. There was something disconcertingly familiar, but von Schroif could not force his tired brain to make the final connection. He was left with the distinct feeling that he had seen this man somewhere before.
Ignoring the bullets now falling around him, the white-haired Russian commander slowly raised his right arm and made as if to fire an imaginary pistol, which seemed to be aimed straight at von Schroif. As he did so, the KV-1 began to slowly back into the forest, as if it were on a Sunday drive. In the instant that the machine was enveloped by the trees, von Schroif caught a final glimpse of the commander, settling back into the turret, which he also noticed bore the stencilled outline of a cloven-hoofed figure grasping a pitchfork.
The distant encounter was unsettling in the extreme for von Schroif. “Maybe this is him after all… Could it be that there actually is a white devil? He certainly knows his tank tactics,” thought von Schroif, who was painfully aware that, had Knispel not saved their bacon, it would have been this man leading the victors in a frenzy of cold-blooded bayoneting worthy of SS-Sturmscharführer Braun.
The second thought to cross von Schroif’s mind crystallised into a firm conclusion as they passed the smoking wrecks of Greta and Helga. Von Schroif had final proof that too many good men were dying in inferior tanks, and he resolved to do everything in his power to get better equipment.
The third question was one which, in his exhausted condition, he was not yet able to address, let alone answer… Why was the whole crew being summoned to Rastenburg?
CHAPTER 2
RASTENBURG
“Shall I take us back to the battalion workshops, Comrade Korsak?” asked Dimitri Levinski, driver of the wounded KV-1. To Dimitri, it seemed like a rhetorical question. Devoid of its main armament, there was little prospect of a successful action for the damaged tank. “No, that’s what they’ll expect us to do,” replied Korsak.
“But what else can we do, Comrade?” asked Dimitri Levinski in genuine confusion.
“We’ve still got the machine guns,” intoned Korsak.
“No good against armour though, Comrade Korsak,” mused Levinski.
“Fuck the armour, we’re soon going to find a rich target. Stop the engine.”
The harsh tone said it all. Dimitri Levinski obeyed the command immediately.
Korsak lit a cigarette and soon busied himself with a series of radio conversations.
From the fringe of the forest, Dimitri and his fellow crew members smoked and watched in frustration as the bulk of the Waffen SS grenadiers loaded up into three of the half-tracks and followed the surviving German tanks as they slowly withdrew from the battlefield and climbed the steep hill to a well-earned rest. Other than the smoking hulks of the T-34s and the two Panzer IVs, the only feature of interest was the remaining half-track with its small screen of grenadiers and the forlorn feature of the disabled Panzer IV marked Magda. The grenadiers seemed satisfied that there was no imminent danger and busied themselves making a fire, smoking, and brewing ersatz coffee.