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

Moscow certainly issued some strange and perfunctory commands, but this was without doubt one of the strangest missions he had undertaken. “Why a parachutist? Why a bandsman?” mused Korsak. “What’s in the package… a Stradivarius?”

These and other thoughts occupied the mind of Dimitri Korsak as he carved his way in a north-easterly direction, taking the most direct route regardless of the damage to crops, livestock or fencing. He was on official business from Moscow and he was enjoying his licence to misbehave. Clearly something huge was afoot and it was unlikely that a few broken fences or the lost crops of a Polish collective would cause any comment compared to the unbelievable spectacle which was unfolding to the west.

Ten kilometres to the north-east the ‘bandsman’ was having problems of his own. Karl Wendorff had landed safely enough and his compass reading told him that he was almost at the spot where he was to rendezvous with Cobra and hand over the documents which filled the pouch of his special document belt securely fastened around his waist. By a million-to-one chance Wendorff had successfully completed his night-time descent. As he regained his breath and gingerly got to his feet he was thankful to discover that there were no broken bones and that he appeared to be in one piece.

“So, what next,” he thought to himself. “Well, get rid of the chute for a start! Then find the radio and start transmitting. Then what? Then what indeed?”

All Wendorff had been told was that events would transpire which would be helpful to him. With that small crumb of comfort Wendorff collected up his parachute and opened his portable entrenching tool. He then busied himself for the next hour digging a hole big enough to take the parachute.

With the evidence of his clandestine descent disposed of Wendorff set off in search of the canister containing the radio he was to use to contact Cobra. It had been thrown out of the plane at the right time and he had seen the chute open beneath his. It must be nearby. “But where?” was the question that now presented itself. The answer to the question was soon apparent. Wendorff presently discovered a dirt highway lined by tall birch trees and as he began to make his way along he was stopped in his tracks by a sight that caused him great consternation. There, hanging from the highest branches of a mature roadside birch, was the limp parachute, its harness tangled among the summer leaves. The canister that housed the radio transmitter could be clearly discerned. It was hanging down like an overgrown cocoon from the topmost bough, a full fifteen metres above the ground.

“Oh shit,” thought Wendorff to himself, “how am I going to get that down on my own?”

Former SS-Oberkannonier and funkmeister turned reluctant Brandenburger, Karl Wendorff, possessed a quick and agile mind and he quickly ran through a number of possible solutions.

“Could he saw down the tree?” That was possible, but for the fact that he didn’t possess a saw. “Could he could blast down the tree using grenades?” Again, that was possible, but for the lack of grenades. He certainly couldn’t climb the tree and there was nothing around that he could use to poke the canister to the ground. “Well, this is a conundrum and no mistake,” he thought, but before he could pursue his line of thought any further the clock reached 04:15 Moscow time and the horizon exploded into life.

Even at this distance Wendorff could feel the ground tremor and shake as the barrage opened up and the first shells began to fall upon the fortress of Brest-Litovsk. He stood aghast and open-mouthed as the whole of the western sky for as far as the eye could see was suddenly lit by thousands of flashes. It took a few seconds for the sound to reach him but when it did Wendorff was left under no illusion. Something huge was happening. It looked as if Germany had declared war on Russia; and he was now on the wrong side of the line.

Rossheim’s squadron was quick to rearm and refuel for take-off and soon they were back in the skies over the fortress of Brest-Litovsk. The fortress was already a mass of fire and the smoke was now so intense that individual targets on the ground could no longer be discerned.

“It’s no use. Mission cancelled,” called Rossheim.

“Do we head for home?” asked Küchler.

“There’s too much danger of hitting our own men down there. I can’t see orange smoke or any recognition signs.”

As aerial observation was now impossible, the Stukas were clearly in danger of becoming a headache for their own men.

“Don’t run for home loaded. Follow me.”

Rossheim and his men knew that in the event that their main mission was thwarted they were to widen their operation in order to attack enemy reinforcement columns on the roads leading to the fortress. However, from the air there was not a thing to be seen. The roads were bare of traffic. Flying at an altitude of about 3,000 metres the squadron arrived at the point where they expected to find rich targets. Meanwhile, the morning had developed in to the forerunner of what looked set to be a brilliant summer’s day. The empty road which led to Moscow from Brest stretched into the distance far below the wings of the dive-bombers and Oberleutnant Rossheim dropped to 2,000 metres and then to 1,500 metres in order to search the road and its immediate vicinity.

The skies were equally empty and the squadron flew further without the escort of fighter planes until finally Oberleutnant Rossheim spotted a lone vehicle making its way across country, leaving the unmistakeable signs of tank tracks. He swooped down to 1,000 metres. There was no question that the vehicle was a Russian light tank of the T-26 type. Why it was ploughing this lonely furrow across the landscape was unclear. Judging from the long tracks through the fields of ripening corn, it had worked its way from the fortress to this isolated spot. Whatever the reason for this strange excursion, Rossheim resolved that this would be the last journey this particular tank would ever undertake.

The noise of the not so distant barrage disguised the approach of the aero-engines as the first of the Stukas lined up for its bombing run. Oblivious to the threat from above, Korsak remained focused on the pleasant task of driving the light tank through the glowing dawn directly towards the rendezvous point. “Nearly there,” thought Korsak to himself. “I’ll complete the mission and then find out what the hell is going on.”

From high above, Rossheim circled and watched as Küchler lined up for a run on the tank.

“Good morning, Ivan. Here is your early morning post!” said Küchler sarcastically as he pressed the bomb release and gave the tank a burst of machine-gun fire for good measure.

“Your aim was quite good, but not perfect,” observed Rossheim as the heavy bomb exploded a few metres from the light tank and the trail of bullets kicked up dust ahead of the machine which now began a series of sudden twists and turns in anticipation of further attacks.

Küchler’s attempt was swiftly followed by two more approaches.

Down below, Korsak was now fighting for his life as two more bomb blasts rocked the T-26 and shards of shrapnel penetrated the thin armour of the fighting compartment. He threw the tank into a series of crazy manoeuvres, abruptly snaking left and right in an attempt to evade what now appeared likely to be sudden death from the skies. Nine aircraft still waited to deliver their payloads and as Korsak stole a glance skywards he realised it would only be a matter of time. There was nothing else for it. He slammed the driver’s hatch down tightly and continued his wild series of moves, making for a tree-lined road which might provide some small measure of cover, but he had to reckon with Oberleutnant Rossheim who now lined up the tank and, coming in as slowly as possible, released his 800 kg bomb which sailed underneath the tank and exploded, hurling the vehicle into the air.