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

SS-Hauptscharführer Schmidt was the man inside gun number 3 who was valiantly attempting to lay down covering fire with the submachine gun. He felt he was firing in the right direction and he hoped he had done enough to make the Soviet gunners keep their heads down.

“Right, go now!” he yelled.

Three hatches immediately flew open as the other crew members prepared to leap into action and repair the track under fire. No sooner had the commander’s hatch opened than there was the crack of a high-powered rifle. The commander of the gun fell lifelessly into the interior of the gun.

“Sniper!” called Hauptscharführer Schmidt, but his warning came too late. The sniper quickly picked off the other two crewmen as they scrambled from their hatches.

The anti-tank gun now fired and registered a perfect hit, which ignited the fuel tank on number 3 gun. As Hauptscharführer Schmidt attempted to bail out, he too was gunned down.

All of this had been observed by Junge, in number 1 gun, who was still dutifully awaiting confirmation from Knispel. “Do you want me to back up? The others are withdrawing,” he said calmly, revving the engine in preparation to move.

“No,” replied Knispel calmly. “We’re loaded with HE and we haven’t had any orders to withdraw… right, Wohl?” As he spoke he pressed the firing button. At that range, Knispel was never going to miss. The anti-tank gun disappeared amidst the resultant explosion.

“Good shooting!” called the mightily relieved Junge. “Shall I take us out of here?”

“Not yet… not until ordered,” replied Knispel. “Load HE, Wohl.”

Wohl selected the appropriate round and rammed it home into the breach. As he did so he casually flipped the switch on the radio set to receive and a stream of commands instantly filled the vehicle.

“Let’s make things a little more interesting for our Red friends,” said Knispel, taking careful aim at the massive water tower that dominated the Terespol fortification.

His perfectly aimed round found its mark and the tower exploded, releasing thousands of gallons which instantly extinguished the fire in the building below. The huge volume of water swept all before it as it cascaded down the street.

“That should give them something to worry about,” said Knispel. “Any orders, Wohl?”

“Withdraw with all speed,” stammered Wohl.

“Good. Well, that’s what we’ll do then…. Take us home, Junge.”

In the dark skies above eastern Poland Oberleutnant Rossheim had bided his time as he awaited the first glimmer of the rising sun in the east. It was still quite dark when the immense spectacle had presented itself to his disbelieving eyes. Suddenly, from one end of the immense horizon to the other, the combined weight of thousands of German artillery pieces had sprung into life and engaged in pulverising the Soviet positions. The line flickered and scintillated across the continent as if huge electrical discharges were taking place all along the length of the border and the display had grown more intense as he approached the fortress. Directly beneath him, the impacts could be seen lying close together. Wherever he looked, flames were shooting up. The explosions of the discharges and impacts joined together into an elemental roar, a deep resonating sound which, even at this distance and in the closeted confines of the cockpit, swallowed up the noise of the engine and rendered it even more ethereal.

Oberleutnant Rossheim had his squadron marshalled well together. Although it was still quite dark, it had become a little brighter by the time they were a short way off their objective. Rossheim looked at the clock again. The raid has been timed for 03:35. There were still a few minutes to go. He banked in a wide curve, so as not to be above the objective earlier than the set time. Rossheim looked back once more to where the colossal artillery barrage was proceeding below. It had risen to a hurricane of fury which could easily be recognized by the vastly increased concentration of fire. As a result of the overwhelming impression of the scene unfolding beneath him, the squadron leader almost forgot to approach his objective in time.

In the first glimmers of the light of the new day the fortress of Brest-Litovsk was revealed. It was rather a large place for a stronghold, even large for a village. It sprawled over an area which included four islands at the confluence of the two rivers. Explosions were smashing in to the buildings and fortifications. As the squadron swooped down to 1,500 metres numerous vehicles could be seen on the streets and the panic-stricken figures of individual soldiers could be clearly discerned as they scurried around, seeking cover. Fires raged everywhere.

It seemed the perfect target for a raid and full of choice targets, although the combined bombs of his squadron could not hope to completely cover the target. It was therefore left to the individual pilots to select their targets. The planes swooped down one after the other and the bombs exploded among the maelstrom below. There was virtually no anti-aircraft fire and the first aircraft came through unscathed and headed back towards the field to refuel and rearm. Rossheim noted with satisfaction that this first run had gone off as smoothly as a training run and most of the others followed with the same results.

Finally, OberLeutnant Rossheim completed his run. He looked back in satisfaction as the bomb scored a direct hit on a wooden-framed building. The objective was instantly enveloped in clouds of smoke in which fresh explosions could be discerned as targets exploded and fresh salvos of shells hit home.

With no anti-aircraft fire to contend with, Rossheim was stunned to witness a machine of his squadron tumble out of the air and crash in flames. Like the dawning sky, the realisation broke over him. The unfortunate Stuka had probably, by a thousand-to-one chance, managed to get into the direct trajectory of an artillery shell and in all probability had received a direct hit from its own artillery. Rossheim dwelt briefly on the bad luck of the crew but it was now necessary to make a run back to the field as fast as possible to rearm and refuel. This was going to be a long day.

Little more than half an hour had elapsed before Rossheim’s dive-bomber formation reappeared and once again pulverized the islet of resistance.

OVER THE noise of the tank engine Dimitri Korsak had heard the commotion and from the open hatch of the driver’s position he had seen the horizon light up with the myriad gun flashes that heralded the most titanic conflict the world had yet witnessed. Puzzled by this unexpected phenomenon he brought the T-26 to a halt and climbed out of the tank and stood upon the engine deck. Over to the west the sky was now lit up like daylight by the ceaseless explosions as millions of projectiles were hurtled towards the territory of the Soviet Union. From the huge fires and towering clouds of smoke it was clear that the fortress he had so recently left behind was now on the receiving end of the most ferocious barrage he had ever witnessed.

“What is happening here?” thought Korsak, who had not the faintest inkling that anything so major was about to happen. “Have the fascists attacked? Or have those idiots in the fortress provoked some kind of response?”

The sheer scale of the bombardment and the fact that the gun flashes were visible from horizon to horizon ruled out the possibility that this was merely some border skirmish. Clearly, this was not a local action.

This realisation immediately raised the question in Korsak’s mind as to whether or not he should cancel the mission. “The timing can’t be a coincidence? Moscow must have expected this, so I had better carry on,” he reasoned. After a further minutes’ pause to take in the astonishing and truly awesome sight he climbed back into the driver’s seat and pushed the starter button. The rapidly lightening sky to the east showed the way ahead. He was bound for a point 20 kilometres to the north-east of the fortress. It was here that he was due to meet with the mysterious bandsman and deliver his own package of death in return.