Bob Carruthers - Tiger Command!

“Jawohl, SS-Hauptsturmführer,” answered Karl Wendorff with a smile.

Now it was only a matter of time and guile. Could Kampfgruppe von Schroif wheel and reach their new position before the Soviets? No doubt ever crossed von Schroif’s newly-crystallised mind. This was a German battle group, after all!

With his group in position, ready to rain fire down on the advancing Soviets, von Schroif then had to decide where to position the Eastern Front’s one and only fully-functioning Tiger tank. With a bit of luck, they could take advantage of the Acht-acht’s superior range and position themselves up and behind the main group, thus providing oversight and protection against any attack from the rear, but would the engine hold during the steep climb?

“Damn it,” thought von Schroif, “trust in the crew, trust in the tank…”

“SS-Panzerschütze Junge, take us up to that ridge behind the main group.”

Then the wait, always the wait. The combined firepower of Kampfgruppe von Schroif, concentrating and concentrated, some sensing victory, others fear, others revenge…

When the first Soviet tanks appeared, von Schroif, like every commander, was engaged in his own personal battle. When to hold, when to fire. The longer one held, the greater the firestorm unleashed, but also, the longer one held, the greater the possibility the trap would be sprung against the hunter… Hold… Hold… Von Schroif could feel the sweat start to trickle from his brow. Inside the tank, the heat, the tension, the silence, the sweat… Hold… Hold… Hold… “Fire!”

Every gun and every barrel spat flaming death down the hillside, onto a trapped and unsuspecting foe.

“Reload. Fire!” Again and again, three savage salvoes fired before the Soviets were able to respond.

Inside the tank, sinew and brain formed an inseparable bond within men and between men, and between man and machine. Wohl, in his shorts, the heart of this machine, feeding shell after shell of this pulsing, beating organism of death.

Desyanti and T-34s were blown together and apart. Flaming metal death swept the column in high-explosive wave after high-explosive wave. Many of the KV-1s were still functioning though, still alive, and almost all had their guns bearing up on the hill above them.

“Reload. Fire!” ordered von Schroif, but he heard nothing in response. No noise. No retort. Fearing the worst, he turned and looked back down into the tank at Otto Wohl and couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The little bastard was sitting down, flicking through the pages of that damn book of his. But before von Schroif could open his mouth, his loader quickly ripped a page out of the book and handed it to him. It was a diagram showing the weak spots of the KV-1 and the relative effectiveness of different kinds of explosives at different ranges.

“SS-Panzeroberschütze, Wendorff. Pass this vital information to all Tiger commanders. Wohl, thank you, but please resume your duties!”

And so it was that the tide was turned. Rearmed with this vital information, each Tiger commander was reminded exactly which round to use and where to fire it. Armour-piercing at 1,500 metres front-on, 2,000 metres side-on. High-explosive for track and running gear and engine ventilation systems. Soon the KV-1, which had reigned supreme from June 1941, was cast down amongst the mortals, and a new tank, the Tiger, rose to take its place on the pantheon of battlefield gods.

“Send in the grenadiers,” was von Schroif ’s next order, one which signalled the final phase of the battle, and one which brought relief to all those hardy souls on Mount Gotterdammerung. All except one◦– Commander Dimitri Korsak.

Back in the tank, Otto was the first to break the silence. “Well, boss, I didn’t want to upset you during the heat of battle, but I’m afraid that last shell was… well, our last shell. How is that for portion control?”

“Good timing, indeed!” replied von Schroif, “Now, let us get these Tigers towed back to base!”

But then Karl interrupted. “SS-Hauptsturmführer. Borgmann again, asking for an update.”

“Damn this Borgmann!” thought von Schroif to himself, but orders were orders.

“SS-Panzeroberschütze. Inform Borgmann that we are approaching target. SS-Panzerschütze Junge, take us to the target as quickly as possible!”

Junge then increased the revs and Elvira tore through the woods, smashing through the undergrowth like a giant beast unleashed, the tank careering sometimes at such a steep angle that von Schroif, if he had not trusted his driver completely, may have adjudged it would surely tip over.

“Five hundred metres from designated coordinates,” Junge informed his commander. “Must be that panje hut in the clearing.”

“SS-Panzerschütze Junge,” ordered von Schroif, “slow her down and take us to within 200 metres. SS-Panzeroberschütze Wendorff, you are coming with me.”

Then there was an almighty crash. All five of the crew were thrown about the inside of the tank like limp dolls. Then an eardrum-bursting roar. Coming to, von Schroif instinctively knew that they had been hit from the rear.

“Knispel, behind us!”

Michael Knispel, dazed and bleeding, got back into his position, but, try as he might, could get no response from the turret turning mechanism. Then von Schroif remembered that it was futile anyway◦– they had no armour-piercing shells left. They were a sitting duck.

Peering outside, he could see a KV-1 approach, and, in the commander’s hatch, the unmistakable face of… and then he remembered… It was familiar, he had known this “White Devil”, this “White Fox”… their paths had indeed crossed before… in Germany… over 20 years ago, in the Freikorps and KAMA… Stenner, Wilhelm Stenner… that was his name…

This flash of memory was no good to him now. No gun, no ammunition, and, by the sound of it, even no engine.

His crew looked at him for support and salvation, but he had nothing to offer. Nothing. They were indeed a powerless, motionless, sitting duck. There was only one hope. If it was the tank that Stenner was after, then in all likelihood he would not want it destroyed. Their only hope was to sit tight, safe for now in the iron belly of the beast. Then, suddenly, Otto Wohl collapsed. Bobby Junge was first to guess the probable cause, Karl Wendorff the first to rush to Wohl’s aid.

“Engine shutoff, sir. Carbon monoxide, we have to get him outside.”

Hans von Schroif made one of the hardest decisions he had ever made as quickly as if it had been one of his easiest.

“Everyone outside… at the double.”

He had no choice. He would not leave Wohl or any other crew member to certain death. They would take their chances. To the last.

Laying Wohl on the ground, von Schroif then stood up and faced the KV-1, trying to squeeze one ounce of mercy out of Stenner’s cold heart, if not for himself, then for his crew, but it was a pointless exercise. Slowly, the machine gun turned towards him. In a gesture of solidarity, Wendorff, then Junge, then Knispel, stood shoulder to shoulder with him. None were running. None were leaving their commander, or Otto Wohl.

Death did not come at that moment though, only another almighty roar. The back of the KV-1 reared up, its turret sagged, and von Schroif could make out flames sweeping the inside of the tank. Stenner bailed out, but no crew followed him. There was an attempt to break open the turret, but it soon petered out. Nothing could have survived. Then von Schroif heard the roar of a Panzer III, bearing the welcome sight of Major List.

“Von Schroif! Had to take evasive action. Thought we’d pop round and see if we could offer any assistance! Even I couldn’t miss from thirty metres!”

“You have been most helpful, my dear major. Most helpful. We will rendezvous back in the valley soon.”