Bob Carruthers - Into the Gates of Hell - Stug Command '41

“I presume you don’t want me to wait up?” was Anastasia’s testy parting remark.

Although Bettina too seemed weary, there was chink of light. She had warmly accepted his offer of one last turn round the grounds of Cholmsker, the southernmost island, where the 4th Army field hospital was situated. It gave them a last chance to enjoy the balmy summer air. She was clearly interested in him and his hopes grew as they walked and talked. Eventually he drew to a halt and began to listen intently to a very feint buzzing sound.

“Bees? Is that bees, out so late?” asked Bettina.

Forgetting himself for a moment, Zubachyov brusquely held his hand up and commanded her silence.

“Not bees◦— aircraft,” said Zubachyov.

“Why so late?” asked Bettina.

“I fear it’s not a question of late, but early,” replied the commander.

“Are they our planes?” asked Bettina, a note of concern creeping into her voice.

“They’re coming from the west, look,” said Zubachyov, his own manner now displaying signs of nervousness. “They can only be the fascists.”

Dimly, in the sky to the west, the lights of hundreds of aircraft could be seen, all heading in the same direction◦— eastwards, into Soviet territory. As they drew close there was the deafening drone of hundreds of Heinkel and Dornier engines, supplemented by the occasional higher pitched whine as their escorting Messerschmitt fighters zipped by. At the gates leading to Brest Fortress at that very moment, on June 22, 1941, the frontier guards observed many multi-coloured lights in the sky, moving quickly from the west. Soon they covered the entire horizon. Then the hum of motors could be heard. Hundreds of planes were crossing the border with their running lights on. Black crosses could be seen on their wings and fuselages.

“What does it mean?” asked Bettina.

“I think it means I was wrong. I must leave you,” growled Zubachyov. Before he could react however, the sound of running footsteps heralded the approach of a breathless messenger.

“I regret to interrupt, comrade, but we need you at the gate.”

All along the 3,000 kilometre stretch of front last minute briefings were taking place as information and instructions cascaded down from the highest level at OKW to individual squads in the front line. The Luftwaffe too stood ready to play its part. As the planes of their comrades droned overhead, heading for targets further to the east, the few remaining men of Luftflotte 2 who had not yet taken to the air were being addressed by their officers. The men of Stuka squadron Rossheim had only a short flight to their target and were now summoned to hear the last minute words of Major Kuhn.

Each man was by now well aware of the historical importance of the coming events as they stood round their commander in a tent lit by flickering oil lights. During the last few months there had been constant rumours flying around of a new campaign. The fact that numerous ground crews as well as entire flying formations had been moved east provided grist to the rumour mill.

During his five years of active service Oberleutnant Ludwig Rossheim had heard many rumours. He had heard them in Spain, Poland, Norway, France, the Balkans and Greece. Sometimes they were accurate, sometimes akin to unbridled fantasy. Rossheim rightfully considered himself to be a knowledgeable veteran and therefore inclined to make a correct call. Exercising his own judgment, he had discarded all of the gossip about a surprise attack on the Soviets, but now, to his great surprise, he had to admit to himself how wrong he had been. Most of those with whom Rossheim had discussed the various rumours and counter-rumours believed that the Russians were going to allow the Germans to push forward across Russia to the Near East in order to threaten the British stranglehold on the oilfields and other raw materials. Given that the two countries were allies, this seemed to make perfect sense. A surprise stab in the back was not the German way, but now the exact opposite was being confirmed to all.

The pilots took turns to consult their own maps and once more noted the details of their objective.

“Take careful note, gentlemen, of the fortress of Brest-Litovsk, a sprawling collection of buildings, like a small town with parkland, strong points, training colleges and a hospital. A number of Russian formations have their headquarters here. On the ground, the main attack will be undertaken by the 45th Infantry Division and the SS led Kampfgruppe von Schroif.”

At the mention of the name, OberLeutnant Ludwig Rossheim couldn’t resist a wry smile.

“Does the name mean something to you, OberLeutnant?”

“Well, if it’s the same von Schroif I’m thinking of, then he and I are great friends. We met in Spain, where von Schroif commanded one of the Legion Condor’s light tanks. It caused a great deal of merriment to watch his gunner squeeze into the tiny Panzer I. The von Schroif I know is a hard fighting and highly efficient battlefield leader and I take heart from the fact that matters will progress well on the ground.”

“That sounds very reassuring. The other good news is that we don’t expect much in the way of anti-aircraft fire, but intelligence suggests there may be some elements of an anti-aircraft unit,” said Major Ostermann. “We hope to have the element of surprise, but you can’t be too sure. Whatever happens, gentlemen, you will be flying out in a few minutes, in advance of the greatest offensive of all time. Your job is to obliterate the fortress.”

The pilots of the Stuka squadron, led by a grim-faced OberLeutnant Rossheim, now made their way to a line of dive bombers, formidable Ju-87s, each parked neatly in parade formation. No sooner were the crews aboard than the engines roared into life, the chocks were pulled away and the ungainly aircraft lumbered into the air. Their gull wings made them look like particularly sinister birds of prey as each raced along the grass and took off in the dark. In order to gain height before crossing the frontier the squadron headed westwards before turning in a large circle and setting a course eastwards to make towards the Soviet frontier, ready to be in position over their objective in the early dawn.

As von Schroif moved through the trees on the banks of the Bug towards his own vehicle he was forced to a halt by his mounting curiosity. His attention had been drawn to the prime movers for hauling the special mortars under Captain Grunewald’s command. The column had halted and the weapons were in the process of being deployed in the designated clearing on the opposite side of the road from the waiting StuGs.

They appeared to be artillery pieces but these were the strangest pieces von Schroif had ever seen. The guns were multi-barrelled with short tubes that were arranged like the chambers of an old six-shooter revolver. Each of the six guns was swiftly unlimbered and placed in position by its crew, which appeared to consist of four men. The large calibre ammunition was stacked within easy reach to the left and right of the strange guns. The crews were loading the guns and von Schroif watched with interest as the shells were introduced two at a time, beginning with the lower barrels and continuing upward. Meanwhile, foxholes were being finished.

The spreading rumours of new and formidable developments in German ordnance had reached the ears of everyone in the Wehrmacht. The word was that spectacular results were being achieved with the six-barrelled tubular projector. This was von Schroif’s first close-up glimpse of the new wonder weapon and Captain Grunewald welcomed him to a rapid tour of inspection.

“As you can see, the projector is mounted on a rubber-tired artillery chassis with a split trail,” said Grunewald with loving pride.