Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

The MG42 clattered deafeningly. The long chain of bullets whipped over Angst’s palms as he fed the belt smoothly toward the firing slit. As Ehrling raked the lip of the trench line with enfilade fire, the ground spat up fountains of earth and dust. More grenade explosions came, and the cackle of small arms fire. Between bursts, Ehrling shouted, “I’ve got it now. Go! Go!”

Angst entered the din. Whorls of smoke, shouts, and screams; a mean, sordid fight. He stepped over bodies. Two, and then three more. Uniforms shredded, the flesh dangled like ribbons. He saw something and was about to shoot. It was Keller. Angst put up his carbine. Keller leaned against the trench wall and held his left leg up off the ground, with both hands clasped under the knee. Pale and drawn, he grimaced with excruciating pain. The toe of his boot was missing; only torn leather and pulp remained. The gunfire trailed off. Angry German voices barked Russian words: “ Ruki Verch! Ruki Verch! ”

“The sons of bitches have given up,” Keller said. He sounded disappointed. “Can you manage on your own?”

“I think so,” Keller said, and started to hop down the trench on his one good leg. The MG42 had stopped shooting, and except for the voices, all had become relatively quiet. Cautiously, Angst proceeded down the trench for another twenty meters, turned another corner, and came upon the rest of the squad. The Russians had been pushed into a knot further down the communication trench. Crammed in the narrow channel, Minnesinger and Halle had their weapons trained on the five remaining Russians, who lay scrunched up, cowering beside and even on top of one another. Richter was on the other side of the group, shouting curses. He shoved the barrel of the Pshagin in the face of one Russian, who flapped his hands wildly and pleaded. Richter found the gestures amusing, but it was evident he was short on mercy and waiting for the word to let loose. Woefully underequipped, some of the prisoners did not wear complete uniforms. Some were without helmets. One was even barefoot, and the soles of his feet were the color of the Ukrainian soil. Well beyond middle age, he spoke for the entire group as he turned from Richter to Minnesinger in desperation, trying to plead their case. Minnesinger listened attentively, if with difficulty, and tossed out a word or two in Russian. Angst had edged in closer beside Halle.

“What’s he saying?”

“The usual, more than likely. How the Bolsheviks forced them into the Red Army at gunpoint.”

“What will we do with them?”

“Shoot ’em, I guess.”

“No one’s going to shoot anybody,” Minnesinger said firmly. “This sorry lot would have surrendered, given the chance, only the old hands among them put up the fight.”

Richter wasn’t convinced. “They all went along for the ride. You saw what they did to Lindenberger. I say, kill all the Bolshevik swine.”

“I said no! Battalion can deal with them. Let’s stash them in the main dugout for now.”

“If they even twitch, I’ll toss a grenade on the whole bunch,” Richter threatened.

Minnesinger gestured with his pistol and barked, “ Dveegat’sa! Devai! Devai! ”

The Russians twisted and turned themselves about, huddled close to the ground on hands and knees. As Richter poked them along with the submachine gun, they were led to the deeper and more secure part of the strong point, toward the main dugout.

Minnesinger looked around. “Where’s Keller?”

“Wounded. I sent him back,” Angst said.

“What happened?”

“He got shot in the foot.”

Minnesinger made a face. “That’s some excuse.”

Angst did not know how to read the platoon leader’s remark. When they reached the dugout, the prisoners filed in. There was no further need for Angst’s presence, so he returned to his rifle squad and informed them the situation had been brought under control.

“For the time being, at any rate,” Braun muttered anxiously.

As the Stug III chugged toward the first company sector, Naumann observed from the cupola periscope that a KV1 had penetrated deep inside the defensive perimeter. The company command bunker was a shambles of shell craters and plowed earth. Intact but stationary, the KV1 operated both hull and turret machine guns, and its cannon fired high-explosive rounds at nearly point-blank range. Hofinger had completed an inventory of the ordnance that was left: eighteen armor-piercing and eleven high explosive shells. The KV’s turret traversed to three o’clock, and the 76 mm gun erupted at some threat. The smoke and distance had so far obscured the assault gun’s approach. Naumann briefed Pieper of what he saw. The gun commander held his head in his hands while he rested in the seat before the fire control system.

“I’ll take it from here,” he said, as he got up. “Return to your post.”

As they switched places, Naumann was tempted to ask the gun commander if he would rather sit this one out. Yet, he knew Pieper’s stubborn nature would not allow it, despite his wounds. Back in the cupola, Pieper watched as the KV1 reappeared through clouds of smoke, five hundred meters away. A single 37 mm antitank gun fired from a fortified strong point on the tank’s left flank. Other than leaving a small weal on the KV1’s surface, the shells had no effect. Small antitank grenades fired from rifle cup launchers pelted the tank, but to no avail. The grenadiers in the trenches should not have wasted their ammunition or their time. This was the equivalent of little mice trying to punch it out with an old tomcat. Pieper hated doing battle with the Klimenti Voroshilov. The vehicle certainly had its defects, including a tendency to break down. The engine burned too hot as it tried to haul all that weight over the ground. It was the thick skin that kept the fat pig of a tank in the fight for so long. The KV’s frontal armor and turret sides were nearly eighty millimeters thick. Five or six well-placed armor piercing rounds would have to be used up before the tank was finally out of action. Happens every time , Pieper thought.

“Move up two hundred meters, Kurowski, and then stop,” he told the driver.

“What if we take fire before the mark?” Hofinger asked.

“Then we will have to put up with it,” Pieper said coldly.

Hofinger uttered a complaint, but the gun commander could not quite hear what his loader had said. He felt too miserable to reproach his subordinate, even if he had heard. The pressure around his nose had become unbearable. His face had become swollen, as though he’d gone a few rounds with a prizefighter. He could taste the blood as it dripped down the back of his throat.

The assault gun had advanced only one hundred meters when the KV1 spotted it and fired. They listened as the shell screeched past. Something was definitely wrong with the KV1, as it made no attempt to maneuver or try to outflank the assault gun. Hofinger relayed a message. A signal operator from the first company informed him that engines could be heard revving loudly from inside the ravine. Kurowski eased the vehicle inside a crater.

“Fire when ready,” Pieper ordered.

Naumann made incremental adjustments to the gun’s traverse and fired. The shell went low and shattered the cog assembly on the KV’s left front end. Track links broke apart. Pieper refrained from uttering something derisive. His gunner was the best shot out of the entire Sturmgeschutz brigade and probably felt foolish enough for causing ineffective damage on the tank’s already compromised mobility. But they had other worries now. Two T-34s bounded from the ravine’s shallow graded defile and raced at full speed toward the first company sector. The vehicles covered a hundred meters or more and then opened fire. The first round screamed overhead and fell long. When the second tank fired, the gun layering was so poor, Pieper had no idea where the shell could have landed. The KV1 was a different matter. A shell had smacked into the ground only meters away. Fortunately the assault gun was low—perhaps a little too low, making Naumann’s aim more difficult. The heavy KV1 was having difficulty drawing a bead. Naumann fired again, this time dead on. He would need another two or three rounds to finish off the KV1 for good, but Pieper ordered him to turn his sights on the T-34s that had approached killing range.