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

“Tell me it’s not the legendary SS-Hauptscharführer Knispel!” said Rossheim. “I don’t think any fortress could hold that lunatic.”

“No, Oberleutnant, it’s Karl Wendorff, our former colleague and radio communications expert without equal,” said Sanger. “It looks as if he is being held prisoner in the east fort. It’s one of the last parts of the fortress that is still holding out.”

“So what is the exact situation on the ground?” asked Rossheim. “How long can these lunatics seek to hold on?”

“I can answer that,” volunteered Captain Grunewald. “I spent the whole of yesterday in the forward artillery observation post. It seems that after all of this fierce and continuous fighting we have now occupied most of the fortress of Brest-Litovsk. But the fighting goes on even though there are now only isolated centres of resistance. Despite the hopelessness of their plight, the Reds fight on even more stubbornly and ferociously. The basements of the White Palace of the Engineering Headquarters building and the barracks of the 333rd Rifle Regiment were some the last centres of resistance in the citadel. I watched the assault engineers dealing with them yesterday. I can assure you that they certainly put an end to the resistance there.”

“Do enlighten us, Captain,” said Rossheim, his interest once more kindled.

“The 81st Combat Engineer Battalion was given the task of blowing up this building on the central island in order to put an end to the Russian troops’ flanking fire at the north island. I watched while explosives were lowered from the roof of the building towards the windows. Then the fuses were lit. When they exploded, we could hear the Russian soldiers screaming and groaning, but still they continued to fight. The engineers only gradually managed to take one defensive position after another as a result of stubborn fighting. The garrison of the so-called ‘Officers’ Corps’ on the central island only ceased to exist with the building itself… the resistance continued until the walls of the building were destroyed and razed to the ground by more powerful explosions”.

“So, is the citadel cleared?” asked Rossheim.

“Not quite, but we are getting there,” replied Grunewald. “The emphasis has been switched to the east fort and the rumour is that the Karl-Geräte will be used to crack that nut.”

“Well, why don’t we go and see this marvel in operation?” said Rossheim in the manner of one who had just hit on a great idea for a picnic.

“Agreed,” said von Schroif. “Let’s hope our colleague survives to re-join us.”

“Indeed,” said Rossheim. “I’d like to meet Wendorff again.”

The five of them trooped round to the field behind the battalion workshops just in time to see the mighty weapons being driven the last few hundred metres to the intended firing location. The sheer scale of these spectacular weapons had drawn a large crowd of hangers-on and spectators of all ranks. They watched in idle fascination as the preparations were made for firing. All the while, Captain Grunewald kept up a running commentary.

“Despite its extreme weight, somewhat surprisingly, the Karl-Gerät has proved to have no problems moving over normal soil, but under no circumstances must they be allowed to make turns on soft soil, in case they throw one of those mighty tracks. The chassis has to be backed into position to fire, and the firing position has to be precisely levelled and the approach route prepared ahead of time to fill in soft spots and any ditches and so forth.”

Finally, all was in readiness. Under the interested gaze of the growing army of spectators, each chassis in turn was lowered to the ground to distribute the recoil forces more evenly. The huge barrels were then lowered.

“The howitzers can only be loaded at zero elevation,” said Grunewald, who had taken over the role of tour guide.

“So it has to be re-aimed between every shot?” enquired Sanger, who was absolutely absorbed by the whole cumbersome process.

“I’m afraid so, yes,” continued Grunewald.

“I’ll bet they can give you a bit of a headache,” said Wohl, looking at the monstrous guns in wonderment.

“They certainly can,” continued Grunewald. “The heavy 60 cm concrete-piercing shells, the schwere Betongranate , make a crater up to fifteen metres wide and five metres deep. They contain three hundred kilograms of explosive. They are capable of penetrating three metres of concrete. This is the second battery. Here we have Thor and Odin, and they have been issued with thirty-six rounds.”

Just at that moment two turretless tanks drove up to the guns and the sense of scale made the spectators realise the true size of these devastating weapons. The tanks, which were built on the Panzer IV chassis, then the heaviest Germany possessed, looked like children’s toys beside the massive howitzers. These immense guns required a crane to hoist the huge shells into the maw of the beast and the onlookers were treated to the entertaining display as the cumbersome ammunition was hoisted and manhandled into position before the barrels were raised and the aiming procedure took place.

At last all was in readiness. After an infuriatingly long pause that elicited some heckling from the eager spectators, the first gun finally fired its massive shell. The explosive power was enormous, the noise of the detonation was huge, and the sound made by the projectile as it hurtled off towards the fortress was a sound to make the Gods tremble. Seconds later the round impacted on the nearby fortress and the earth shook and rippled with tremors. The enthusiastic spectators burst into cheers and applause and watched in rapt delight as the second gun was fired and a second massive shell rocketed into the summer sky.

The effect of the two massive explosions was indescribable. They had come out of the blue, completely unexpected. The defenders had felt the shock of sudden explosions of all calibres from grenades to heavy artillery shells, but this was unlike anything they had ever experienced. The sheer power of the blast shook every inch of the fortress, causing the vaulted ceilings of many of the cellars to collapse, burying their hapless occupants alive. The earthquake-like force of the blast was completely overpowering. It tortured eardrums and drew the air from the lungs of the survivors.

A few hapless individuals happened to have been tending to some wounded in the courtyard and had been enveloped by the fringe of the blast. Staring out over the courtyard, through the smoke and debris, Karl Wendorff tried his best not to linger too long on the lifeless forms and bloodied body parts that lay strewn across the ground and scattered about burnt-out cars and armour.

It was impossible, however, to avert his eyes. The sights were too grotesque and unimaginably dreadful. This was especially true for those blasted and mutilated frames which still contained some semblance of life. One woman in particular, just a few yards from his vantage point, was hauling herself inch by excruciating inch back towards the doorway beneath him. Something told Wendorff that she was a nurse◦— though how he could tell would have been beyond the ability of most observers. Whatever tunic or uniform she had been wearing was so blood-soaked and charred that it fell to one of those curious characteristics of the human mind◦— the ability to fill in the gaps between missing bits of information◦— to arrive at such a conclusion.

Wendorff looked on in revulsion as the stricken creature◦— for surely one could no longer apply the term nurse, woman or even human being◦— threw its one remaining hand repeatedly out in front of itself to grab at the very earth in an effort it to pull itself forward. ‘It’ was a torso with one arm remaining, the other cut off at the elbow. Blood poured from the stumps where her legs had been, three crimson trails marking her journey. To make things worse◦— as if they could get any worse◦— a still smouldering piece of shrapnel was lodged in the small of her back and Wendorff could hear the horrific sound of new blood spitting and boiling as it came into contact with the red hot metal.