Bob Carruthers - Tiger Command!

As von Schroif fulminated, Wendorff added to his Commander’s woes. “SS-Hauptsturmführer, Major List is calling for reinforcements. Message reads: position untenable. Requesting air support.”

Von Schroif needed air. What was going on? What was he to do? On emerging from his cupola, he immediately turned his eyes skyward. A patch of blue! The clouds were clearing! How unreliable those forecasters were! He then motioned to Hauptscharführer Rubbal to proceed with the utmost haste and get the static machines moving again. The Hauptscharführer responded with outstretched arms, indicating that that was exactly what he was doing…

Von Schroif had an uneasy feeling concerning this present circumstance, men working out in the open, the skies clearing, the force split in two, with one of its halves under murderous assault, the sound of its plight, though distant, still shaking the ground beneath them. He then turned his attention to the possibility of air strikes. Oberstleutnant Siebold, the Luftwaffe liaison in his SPW, was best positioned. He could sight, then report as an alarm over the radio◦– this would save them time and allow them to prepare for any attack.

“SS-Panzeroberschütze, radio Oberstleutnant Siebold and request him to not take his eyes off the skies.”

Von Schroif then turned his mind to Borgmann and the coordinates stated in his new orders. He decided to open his map and check the position he had been given. A mile from the hamlet, to the north. Damn him! This Borgmann, he was going to have to wait. In von Schroif’s mind, there could be no greater priority than ensuring that these Tigers did not fall into Soviet hands.

“Oberstleutnant Borgmann again, sir,” shouted Wendorff from below, interrupting von Schroif’s train of thought. “Asking if we have reached target.”

“Tell him we will proceed when the situation has stabilised.”

There was a moments silence after Wendorff relayed von Schroif’s message. Then Wendorff responded. “Not an option, SS-Hauptsturmführer. An explicit order. On the highest authority.”

“SS-Panzerschütze,” said von Schroif, resignedly addressing his driver, “SS-Panzeroberschütze will give you the coordinates. Take us through the tree line at the foot of the hill.”

Bobby Junge revved up the Tiger and headed for the trees at the base of the hill. Just as they entered the trees, Wendorff relayed another message. “Oberstleutnant Siebold. Luftwaffe has arrived! Rejoice!”

This was the best bit of news von Schroif had heard all day and it lifted his spirits momentarily. He looked back with warm pride as the Hauptscharführer called over the towing trucks, directing them carefully to the Tigers, as if they were his own children. “At least the Tigers will be safe,” thought von Schroif to himself. “Our airmen will make sure of that.” But then he heard the whine of diving aircraft and saw half a dozen planes banking steeply, then commencing a dive towards them.

He picked up his binoculars to get a closer look and was barely able to contain his rage. “Those planes are not ours!”

“Take cover! Enemy aircraft alarm! Take cover!”

“Damn those forecasters! We have no flugabwehr!”

The Il-2’s dived out of the sky.

“All crews under their vehicles!” shouted von Schroif to Wendorff.

Von Schroif knew that he and his crew were relatively safe. The Il-2’s were nicknamed “The Black Death”, but von Schroif, and any experienced tanker who had encountered them, apportioned the term to Soviet propaganda. “Reinforced bathtub” would have been a better name. However, it was not the ungainliness and bombing inaccuracy von Schroif was worried about◦– most of the vehicles in his group would survive, unless unlucky enough to receive a direct hit◦– it was the Il-2’s cannon, and the poor crewmen, support teams, and grenadiers out in the open who were the object of his concern.

Refusing to jump back down into his tank, von Schroif watched in horror as the first wave of Soviet planes strafed the scattering elements of his group, many cut down and shredded as they ran for cover. Then came the bombs, the shrapnel, and the flames.

“Get Siebold to call for air support!”

Ducking and wincing, von Schroif saw one Kübelwagen take a direct hit, its flaming chassis flying through the air and grotesquely pinning two hapless grenadiers to the ground. Picking up his binoculars, he desperately tried to locate Siebold’s SPW, but, just as he did, an Il-2 screamed over the tops of the trees, its cannon ripping up the ground in front of the vehicle like it was unzipping the very fabric of the earth itself before tearing apart the SPW and its crew. Men and bits of men flew about the innards of the vehicle before one lucky shell hit the fuel tank…

In return, the ground forces were opening up with everything they had, but von Schroif knew this to be absolutely futile. Without proper air defence support, this was no more than wasted ammunition, mere fireworks. Two more runs and the attack was over, each succeeding run less effective than the last, as the German forces fled from the open and found whatever temporary sanctuary they could.

As the smoke cleared and the sanis went about their bloody business of saving, consoling and tending, von Schroif’s mind was already thinking ahead to the next phase. All was quiet. Whatever had been happening on the other side of the hill was over. Von Schroif did not dare to imagine. Poor List. And now it would be their turn. The KV-1s and the T-34s would be streaming over the hill at any minute. It wasn’t the T-34s that bothered him, it was the KV-1s. There was a new balance of power in favour of the Tiger over the KV-1, but he had only four, and three of them unable to move in any direction at all.

Instinctively, von Schroif guessed that the Soviets would be legion… It all came down to numbers… The cold, dead hand of the numbers game… It was at moments like these that a commander, a soldier, a man, had to look skywards and plunge both hands deep down inside of himself to try and summon up any fight, spirit, or resolve that may remain.

Then it came, that awful thought… This is it, this breath may be my last… But that way lay certain death. When a man gives up on himself, then all, truly, was lost. So, holding on tight to the sides of his hatch, as if the tank herself were feeding him strength, he dragged himself back into the moment with the thought: “It is not my last, it is not my last◦– it is… to the last! To the last!”

Snapping out of it, he felt relief. How could he have abandoned himself so easily? How could he do that to himself, his unit, his crew? His crew… that is what kept him going…

Just then, Wendorff, his rock, looked up at him and, in the calmest voice imaginable, said: “SS-Hauptsturmführer. Do you calculate that the Soviets will attack from over the hill like yesterday, or will they skirt around it, retracing Major List’s tracks and attack from the rear?”

Von Schroif took an instant to assimilate the import of what his radio operator had said… Genius! For, at that moment, his mind had been operating on one single track, that of a massed force of KV-1s and T-34s charging down the hill. That option, from the Russian point of view, however, presented certain obstacles: incline, lack of surprise, and the physical obstacles of yesterday’s burnt-out hulks blocking their way down the few tracks available… So, an attack from the rear now seemed the likeliest Soviet option, which meant… which meant… and von Schroif’s heart leapt at the word… bottleneck!

“SS-Panzeroberschütze, remind me to take you, and the entire crew, to Bayreuth when this is all over. Instruct all units to take up position 150 metres above the tree line on the hill, looking down on where the track leads into the valley. Tell the three other Tigers to train their guns on the exact point where Major List’s group turned off to go behind the hill. Inform all groups that the hill now has a new name. Hill Gotterdamerung!”