Levinski reported the latest development. Korsak was immediately live to the situation and made a further radio call. Levinski was fascinated to witness a lieutenant appear, as if from nowhere, leading a squad of forty sub-machine gunners. They were followed by the unmistakeable sound of T-34 engines.
“God, this man must have some pull,” thought Dimitri, as half the infantrymen disappeared to positions undercover on the fringe of the forest, while the rest climbed onto the reinforcement tanks that now took up supporting positions under Korsak’s careful guidance.
All was soon quiet and the sound of bird song returned to the forest. The peace seemed to stretch into an eternity as first minutes and then hours passed.
Eventually there came the sound Korsak had been waiting for. Two recovery vehicles slithered over the crest of the hill and, following gingerly in the tracks of the disabled panzer, drew to a halt behind Magda.
This was the moment Korsak had anticipated. On his signal, Dimitri Levinski revved his engine into life and engaged gear. The KV-1 sprang forward and, followed by a wave of cheering infantrymen, charged down the slope. The fresh T-34 tanks sprang from their ambush positions, each wreathed in yelling sub-machine gunners, firing wildly in all directions.
As this overwhelming force hurtled towards them, the unwary grenadiers forming the thin security screen around Magda had little opportunity to resist. The machine gun section did manage to open fire, and a few desyanti were swept from the leading T-34, but the return fire was like a steel whirlwind and the machine gunners fell wounded. The disabled gunners had no prospect of salvation and were mercilessly crushed under the onrushing tracks of the KV-1.
From his position inside the buttoned up KV-1, Dimitri Levinski was surprised, and more than a little disturbed, to hear a yelp of delight from the commander’s position, the sound of a man with a feral bloodlust upon him.
Engaged in the painstaking business of preparing the stricken tank to be towed back to the workshop, the men of the tank recovery section had been taken completely by surprise. There was no chance to grab their small arms and they could do little but raise their arms in surrender. A small group of grenadiers attempted to withdraw to the rollbahn, but a flurry of machine gun bullets and high-explosive shells cut them down within a few yards.
The KV-1 swept up to the stunned survivors of the recovery section detachment, which consisted of the ageing SS-Scharführer Brommann and four youths, the oldest around nineteen. Surrounded by Soviet sub-machine gunners, the terrified youngsters raised their hands in terror as the gaunt white-haired Russian tank commander dismounted. He carried a razor sharp Cossack battle axe in one hand and unsheathed a long, sharp dagger. To the surprise of the Soviet troops, he spoke in perfect German.
“So, you see the destruction you have caused. Look at the crimes which arise from German hands. No one makes a run for it. Drop your pants.”
The men began to lower their trousers. One young man was slightly slower than the others, which seemed to send Korsak into a fury. Without, warning he lashed out at a German soldier with his battle axe, severing his hand from his arm as if it were paper. The young man screamed and instinctively grabbed with his other hand in an attempt to stem the fountain of blood. Korsak merely laughed and slashed at the other wrist, leaving the handless and bleeding man to gaze in stunned horror at the stumps.
The tank recovery man then fell to his knees. This seemed to suit Korsak, who grabbed his head and slowly inserted his dagger into the terrified man’s left eye. Korsak did not allow the dagger to pierce the brain. He wanted his victim to live to suffer the agonies of helpless blindness. Without pity, he surgically inserted his dagger into the man’s right eye. The youth began to scream. In a flash, Korsak swept his dagger across the exposed genitals of the stricken young man and, grabbing the severed organs, stuffed them into the prisoner’s mouth.
“Now you really can talk bollocks.”
This provoked some laughter from the Soviets. Korsak handed the axe to the nearest of them.
“See if you can do better. Send a message home to the fascists.”
This almost proved his undoing as, in this brief moment of distraction, SS-Scharführer Brommann seized his chance and sprang at Korsak, throwing him to the ground and locking his hands around his throat.
“You fucking traitorous bastard!” he screamed at Korsak.
The Scharführer spoke no more as six simultaneous bursts of machine gun fire from six different angles hit him like a lead-dispensing fire hose and ripped him to pieces. The bloodied pulp fell onto the prone body of the White Devil, turning his hair pink and covering his chest in bile and ordure.
Clearly discomfited by his experience, Korsak sprang to his feet.
“Now you’ve seen what to do! Make sure you leave them as a warning of what every bastard can expect!”
With that, he leapt back into the tank, and the KV-1 headed back in the direction of the forest as the sub-machine gunners began to set about their prisoners with medieval ferocity.
SS-Hauptsturmführer Hans von Schroif came suddenly to a state of full awakening. His brain sprang into gear. The nightmarish images of white demons which had filled his sleeping hours instantly departed, but the familiar morning terror instantaneously gripped him in its place.
Had he nodded off? Was Ivan creeping up on the bus? Were he and his unguarded comrades about to be on the receiving end of a Soviet hand grenade?
No. He was in a real bed, with real sheets.
“Great, that’s a good sign,” he thought to himself. There was no White Devil. Just a dream? “Yes, just a dream.”
So, here he was in a proper bed…
“Am I wounded? No! Good.”
It would appear that there was no pain, and Hans von Schroif had been injured often enough to know what it felt like, so that was another good sign. At last his inner consciousness broke into the reverie and resolved the uncertainty.
“Ach! It’s Rastenburg, you idiot!”
As the reality hit him, von Schroif was able to relax, and he began to feel anxiety being replaced by the flush of excitement.
So, after a week of frantic activity, the day had finally arrived. It was much too early, but this was the day, the day when he finally got to meet with him. Not just to meet him; he had done that so many times over the last twenty years that the familiarity had taken away any sense of awe long ago. The meetings so far only consisted of a perfunctory shake of the hand and a new decoration gratefully received, which brought the added cache of being able to swagger into the beer hall and the occasional unspoken leverage during a difficult field conference.
Hauptsturmführer von Schroif was only human after all. More often than he really should, he managed to turn a conversation to the point where he would be forced to reluctantly admit that… “er, yes, he had met him actually.” Hans knew the mere fact that he had met, shaken hands and exchanged a formal German greeting with the great man was enough. The girls certainly loved it, they always wanted to know everything about him.
“Were his eyes really so blue? Was he tall? Did he have large hands and feet? Do you think he has a sweetheart of his own?”
This time would be different. This would not be a conversation that could be idly repeated in a beer hall to impress a willing fräulein or out-boast a beer-filled comrade. Even so, a momentary flicker of doubt crossed von Schroif’s mind.