Bob Carruthers - Tiger Command!

The two men nodded to each other in an unspoken signal to attack and sprang into a firing position, their machine pistols spitting fire into the compact group of partisans, who fell like skittles as the bullets ripped into them. Bodies fell left and right and any return fire was directed impotently skywards as the few partisans who could bring their weapons to bear were swiftly mown down in confusion and chaos.

One of those bodies falling to the ground, industrially shredded by machine pistol bullets, was that of Boris Stankov. As the life drained from him, he determined that he would use his last instant in the service of his country in her heroic struggle against the fascists. Boris Stankov’s last act was to reach out with a blood-stained hand for the plunger.

The force of the resulting explosion threw von Schroif backwards into a muddy pool, which certainly saved his life, as a cascade of falling logs and planking crashed into the ground where he had been standing only seconds earlier. List had been fortunate enough to witness Stankov reaching for the plunger and had dived into a water-filled ditch. As the last debris fell all around him, he rose slowly to his feet and ran over to the half-submerged, prone figure of Hans von Schroif. His terror turned to humour as the mud-encased figure arose floundering from the shallow pool.

“How was the fishing? Catch anything?”

“Only this…” retorted von Schroif, tossing a piece of hairy, blood-encrusted partisan skull.

“Ah! Lunch… How would you like it? Rare or medium?”

“I’ll skip lunch, if that’s OK with you,” said von Schroif.

The two men gazed at the wreckage of the bridge. Stankov and his team had certainly done a thorough job.

“Well, there’s a bit of a problem. It’s nearly two metres deep. The place where the ‘White Devil’ appeared is about 700 metres that way,” said List, pointing to the other side of the river.

“As long as the banks are capable of supporting the weight, we’ll be OK,” replied von Schroif.

“So your tanks are submarines too?”

“In a way, yes… We can travel submerged up to three metres.”

“Well, you learn something new every day!” said List.

“The Tiger is quite a machine, designed by an old friend of mine. The wide tracks give it very low ground pressure… so it can go places where a Mark IV can’t… and it can certainly go anywhere a KV-1 can…”

“Are you asking for permission to follow the tracks of a certain KV-1?”

“I am, sir.”

“Permission granted.”

Back at the railhead, the four Tigers, after a quick inspection, were refuelled and ready for the short journey north to the supply point. Initially, things went well. Bobby Junge reported the engine to be running smoothly, the track they drove on seemed firm and substantial, and the crew’s morale was boosted by the cheers and good wishes they heard from every group of infantrymen they passed.

“What confidence these new Tigers give our soldiers!” thought Michael Knispel, commanding the tank in von Schroif’s absence, and now eagerly anticipating the coming engagement. In fact, he began to feel a surging wave of great confidence and pride, which began to encourage dangerous notions that these new tanks may somehow be decisive, and that they had the power to transform and save!

“No, no, no,” thought Knispel to himself. “Never allow your thoughts to travel along these beguiling roads… how dare he dream such dreams! These were the dreams of the vain◦– glorious◦– and the soon to be deceased…”

So he reprimanded himself and returned to the time-honoured tradition of studying the landscape, the details of which were quite delightful. The sun-dappled trees and shimmering streams, the entire landscape bathed in a warm, soothing late-August light.

“Great hunting country! When this is all over…” Knispel thought to himself, “I must return.”

His reverie was soon broken when he rounded the next bend to be greeted by the gun-metal grey and standard-issue camouflage netting of the supply area, carved out of the forest as if with some great steel clearing shovel. Knispel snapped back into attention. This was where the training took over. He could hear Bobby Junge lower the rpm, which was correct when approaching any assembly point. He noticed the grenadiers out concealing previous track marks into the area, which was again correct procedure, and he followed the signs assigning his tank to the correct location. Correct, correct, correct.

Then Junge manoeuvred the tank, amidst all those admiring eyes, under the nearest tree. Correct. Knispel made sure the turret was traversed to the side, so Junge and Wendorff could conveniently climb out through their hatches. They then set about removing the track marks and concealed the tank with branches and netting. Knispel then quickly reconnoitred the immediate area, checking for anti-aircraft spotters. These men would give alarm if any enemy aircraft were spotted. Best to know who and where they were.

According to the rules, the entire crew carried their individual weapons. In the event of a surprise artillery barrage, they also carried their steel helmets. Off to the right, Knispel could make out the supply vehicles gathering. Everything they were to need should be aboard those vehicles. Knispel did not need to tell Bobby Junge to carry out any essential maintenance and to help replenish the tank, he had already started!

Knispel had one last quick look at the land and sky surrounding them and then went off to find the cookhouse and sniff out the possibility of a bottle of beer. “All is well,” he thought, noticing crews busy and some resting, others occupying alert position at the edge of the woods in case of enemy attack. Before he could get on to his mission, the Kübelwagen bearing List and von Schroif swept up to him.

“Ah, Knispel, just the man… Our reconnaissance is, how shall we say, lacking its usual comprehensiveness. Not surprising, given the unexpected events we have just encountered, but it does seem, even from the confirmed reports, that an old friend of ours is lurking nearby.”

“The White Devil, sir?”

“Got it in one, SS-Hauptscharführer. Time to go hunting!”

Elvira had little difficulty in fording the narrow river. The snorkel device worked perfectly, and they were soon at the spot 700 metres to the north where KV-1 tracks led off into the forest.

“Anywhere they go, we can go too,” said Junge with confidence. “You can see what type of an opponent we are dealing with though. This is more like a rally.”

“Good. We all know a single tank should not be doing this, but the prize makes it worthwhile. We head straight to the rollbahn, and we destroy as many enemy vehicles as possible. Understood?”

“Jawohl, Haupsturmführer!”

The journey through the forest was difficult and challenging in the extreme, but the deep track marks left by the KV-1 meant their route was unmistakable, and eventually they emerged from the trees, the Soviet-held rollbahn stretching in front of them from right to left. It rose gently upward toward the left, and disappeared behind high ground after about 1,200 metres. To the right, it ran flat and true for a distance of 3,000 metres. They were just taking up a position facing east when von Schroif’s observation was interrupted by an unwelcome message.

“Oil pressure is very low, sir. I think we may have an engine problem,” reported Bobby Junge. “Permission to check, sir?”

“Go ahead, Junge. Everyone else, keep vigilant.”

While the others kept an all-round watch, Bobby Junge busied himself with the engine. He had only just begun to open the engine hatches when, very faintly, in the distance, came the sound of what sounded like voices singing. Slowly, the noise got louder, and gradually started to mix with the sound of tank tracks.