Bob Carruthers - Tiger Command!

Then he shot his gaze back to the last Tiger, just rearing up, when a backward jolt on the uncoupled wagon nudged it back◦– certainly not far◦– but enough to disturb the recently-built ramp, which collapsed just as the front of the tank was about to drive onto the wagon.

“Look out!” von Schroif screamed at one of the tank’s crew who was standing next to the ramp, but his voice was lost and too late.

The tank fell, its massive weight pressing down on the long wagon, which flipped up and turned in the air, landing on a screaming crew member. There was nothing that could be done. He shouted and waved frantically to the rest of the crews to get on the slowly moving train before it pulled away.

Hans looked out over the grim scene◦– explosions and fires, the wail of sirens, the screams of the wounded and dying, and the sickening sight of the flailing arms of a man caught under a rail wagon from the waist down, the last frantic automatic movements of a man who, if there was any mercy in this world, would hopefully be dead already.

Von Schroif had to look away, not because of any squeamishness on his part, God knows he had seen worse, but because of a deep malaise that sickened his soul. He had killed many men, been responsible for the deaths of many men, but they were all sworn foes, enemies… It was always different when it was one of your own.

He hadn’t personally killed the poor bastard, but it was his responsibility. He had given the order to side-load the tanks and, as it turned out, that was premature. No more bombs had landed near the train. Yes, the driver had pulled out without warning, but that could have been rectified.

Hans knew where he was headed◦– a dark slough of despair where no light ever shone. There might be justifications and excuses that the mind could throw up to help alleviate this sickness, but honest despair overruled them all. He had killed that tanker just as surely as if he’d hurled down the wagon with his own bare hands… and this knowledge cut him to his very soul…

“Should I take the credit?” asked Walter Lehmann of himself. “What a stroke of luck! One Tiger left behind and, probably more importantly, no towing vehicle! Yes, why not? It would make his negotiating position with the Soviets even stronger. How many more Swiss francs did he need? Well, there were certain necessities a man could not do without, and there were contingencies and plans for the future which needed certain amounts of capital.”

Then he thought again. The objective was simple: to capture a Tiger. The plans he had the art teacher steal from the factory would help, but would not have the same value as one of the beasts falling into the hands of Soviet engineers. The more tanks that got to the front, the more chance of capturing one intact. So perhaps he had better word the transmission carefully. How about…

“Guests arrive Mga. 0800 hrs 29th. One guest has food poisoning. Will miss meal.”

The journey to Mga, the railhead to the east of Leningrad, was not ideal, certainly not cooped up in a tank on a train in the middle of a blazing hot August, but essential camaraderie would see them through, as it always had. Otto Wohl would cut hair and tell jokes. Bobby Junge, as was the custom with drivers, would be allowed to sleep as much as possible. Michael Knispel would regale the rest of the crew with useful and informative titbits, like the differences between German and Soviet rail gauges. Karl, as usual, was quiet, listening in on any radio traffic. Who knows what went through his mind. Perhaps he was listening to opera?

“This is it.” Hans von Schroif thought to himself. “This was not why men went to war, but how men survived war.” In that moment, von Schroif realised that, amidst all the privation, the pain and the suffering, it wasn’t the cause or the ideal, and certainly not the glory, which made it bearable. It was the unit, the platoon, the crew. These other men in this tank, these friends. When all was said and done, they were the reason why he would see this through to the end.

It was nearing dusk. With Wohl, Junge and Knispel asleep, von Schroif was about to shut his eyes when Wendorff motioned that he wanted to talk, in private. Hans von Schroif agreed. Screened by the gathering darkness, the two men ventured out of the turret and walked to the front of the tank. This, of course, went against all the rules for rail travel, but Hans von Schroif knew there was little chance of the two men being seen.

“SS-Hauptsturmführer, there was an incident back in Rostov, the day we faced the KV-1. I did not mention it at the time, as I felt I needed more information before divulging it to you,” said Karl as Hans listened intently.

“Continue, SS-Panzeroberschütze,” replied Hans.

“As we were travelling along the road, just before the mine and the Russian attack, I received a signal, not one which I could readily understand or decode. It seemed to me to be significant, so I memorised it and then wrote it down. However, even after considerable research, revisiting my old study papers and the like, its meaning or even origin eluded me. Then, when we were in Paderborn, I took the opportunity to make a request to my old professor, who was kind enough to enlighten me in my search.”

“And…?” asked von Schroif.

“PNKTI.EH.SFTVOCE, transmitted by key. I thought I was dealing with something sophisticated, perhaps in Italian or one of the Swiss dialects, even one of the Russian languages, but I overcomplicated things. It’s actually a very simple code, and the message is in German. It’s not one of ours. It’s simply the alphabet reversed, with roman numerals for numbers. Once decoded, it gives an attack target. Kmpgr.vS.hugelXV. It means Kampfgruppe von Schroif, Hill 15. Our unit designation and the objective… If you recall, Hill 15 was the objective.”

Hans von Schroif looked out over the Polish countryside as they sped towards the Russian border, quite unable to take in the ramifications of what he had just heard.

“There is more, sir…”

“Go on.”

“After we did the brief inspection before leaving Berlin, I picked up a message in the exact same code language. The signal was fainter, but it’s essence just as disturbing. It detailed the exact time of our arrival at Mga. I think someone may be expecting us.”

Commander Kirill Meretskov studied the man who stood before him. So this was the infamous Dimitri Korsak, the man also known as the Steppe Fox, or to the Nazis as “Der Weisse Teufel”. Meretskov knew of his reputation, and could have used him in the Sinyavino Offensive, but Moscow had decreed otherwise. There was no intimation as to what Moscow required of this man, only that he, Kirill Meretskov, Commander of the Volkhov front and the victor of Tikhvin, was to do everything in his power to help this tank commander, this Dimitri Korsak.

This rankled him. Was he not trusted by Moscow? This had echoes of his arrest by the NKVD in 1941, but he quickly suppressed those memories. Stalin, after all, had spared him. But why the secrecy? This thing had Beria’s fingerprints all over it.

Dimitri Korsak could sense Meretskov’s unease, which in turn gave him confidence in the importance of the task he had been assigned.

“So my requests will be met in full?” asked Korsak, the suspicion showing through in his voice.

“Impudent bastard,” thought Meretskov, but he knew now never to interfere with his superiors. “Anything you require will be made available to you.”

At which Korsak saluted and left. “Now,” he thought, remembering Rostov, “it is time for unfinished business…”

The station at Mga was a throng of troops, trains and equipment. The detraining had passed without incident, apart from the obvious excited interest of everyone who had cast eyes on the new Tigers. When they had pulled back the tarpaulins it had been like the unveiling of a great work of art! This was no art gallery though, because the noise of not-so-distant artillery exchanges indicated that either they were not far from the front, or they had just arrived in the middle of a major offensive. In fact, both were true.