So....My Tank Corps in Prussia...

[Commissar D, the Evil]

No problem here Tom. According to my sources, the L/48 75mm gun of a StuG could only penetrate a JS-2 with certainty at about 100 meters (only 40 meters beyond the limits of the average panzerfaust!) so any StuG crewman who achieved such a kill had to possess extraordinary courage and nerve. Nothing I could write could possibly accurately reflect the courage of Rudi and his Kameraden, who survived a direct hit from the 122mm shell of one of these monsters.

I know my limitations and accurately describing how it must have felt for a StuG crewman to face a JS-2 is beyond my limited skills as a writer. (Not to say that I won't try....)

Very Best,
David

[Alex Coles]

Wasn't the KwK L/48 given to the Panzer IV? I don't understand, how could it be implemented into the Sturmgeschütz?

[Commissar D, the Evil]

Hi Alex! The L/48 was indeed mounted in the turret of the Panzer IV. It was too large to be mounted in the turret of a Panzer III, which is why it equipped the StuG III that didn't have a turret. The same gun was also mounted in the Hetzer, which was smaller than the StuG III. The largest gun mounted on a turreted Panzer III was the 75mm L/24 and the largest high velocity gun mounted on that tank was the L/60 50mm gun.

The principle in WWII was that self-propelled guns, like the StuG, were capable of carrying larger guns on their chassis than a turreted tank. That's why you see the Panther with the long 75 mm, but its SP version, the Jagdpanther, carried the 88mm gun. Likewise, while the Pz. IV carried the L/48 75mm gun, its turretless version, the Jagdpanzer IV, carried the heavier L/70 75mm gun introduced originally for the Panther.

To my knowledge, the T-34 was the most adaptable chassis. Early turreted T-34s carried a 76mm gun, but the self propelled guns on the T-34 chassis carried a short 122 mm gun and then an 85 mm gun. Finally, the Russians totally redesigned the turret of the T-34 to take the 85mm gun, but, at the same time, the self-propelled version of that tank, the Su-100, without a turret, was upgraded to carry a 100mm gun.

As I said, the rule is that an SP version of a tank, without a turret, can always carry a bigger gun than its turreted tank version. The Tiger II carried an 88mm cannon but the Jagdtiger, based on the same chassis but without the rotating turret, carried a 128mm cannon. It was a trade off based on weight and size limitations: you could have a turreted tank capable of carrying a smaller gun or adopt the same chassis without a turret to carry a bigger gun. This meant a sacrifice in flexibility, since a tank is more capable on the batllefield than a turretless assault gun, but an assault gun or SP, invariaby carried a better high velocity cannon.

I hope this helps.

Best,
~D, the EviL

[Dragunov]

so naturally, you want your panzerjägers to act as "snipers" and pick off the enemy armour, relying on a good gun, low profile and good camo to inflict good'ol pain. the last thing you want to do is send them turretless ones on a charge directly at the enemy. StuGs are different though, as they were meant as infantry support, and therefore shouldnt have been cookin' up tanks as much.

the jagdtiger??!??!?!? if the Tiger was a mistake, the jagdtiger was suicide. the manouveribility was suck plusplus but the gun could crack a JS2 at 1km (i guess) sorry the amateurism.

a way to look at it is that the tank hunter had a gun up than it usually had.
jagdpanzer had the panther's gun, jagdpanther had the Tiger2's gun and the jagdtiger had the Maus' gun.

dont forget dear old Ferdinand,

Dragunov

[Alex Coles]

Ferdinand, Elefant, and Tiger became targets of the SU-152 "Animal Killer"

[Alex Coles]

Hi Alex! The L/48 was indeed mounted in the turret of the Panzer IV. It was too large to be mounted in the turret of a Panzer III, which is why it equipped the StuG III that didn't have a turret. The same gun was also mounted in the Hetzer, which was smaller than the StuG III. The largest gun mounted on a turreted Panzer III was the 75mm L/24 and the largest high velocity gun mounted on that tank was the L/60 50mm gun.

Well, obviously and that's why in the Panzer III N model, they used the short barrel 75mm gun, because if it did fit the mantle, the gun would of been implemented pretty quickly, to strengthen the armour on the eastern front against the ,at the time, invincible T-34.

The principle in WWII was that self-propelled guns, like the StuG, were capable of carrying larger guns on their chassis than a turreted tank. That's why you see the Panther with the long 75 mm, but its SP version, the Jagdpanther, carried the 88mm gun. Likewise, while the Pz. IV carried the L/48 75mm gun, its turretless version, the Jagdpanzer IV, carried the heavier L/70 75mm gun introduced originally for the Panther.

Yes, i've noticed that too. Such as the Jagdtiger (on a Tiger chassis) consisted of the 128mm cannon, while the standard version used the L/56 (I think) gun which maybe was modified from the FlaK gun to the tank.

To my knowledge, the T-34 was the most adaptable chassis. Early turreted T-34s carried a 76mm gun, but the self propelled guns on the T-34 chassis carried a short 122 mm gun and then an 85 mm gun. Finally, the Russians totally redesigned the turret of the T-34 to take the 85mm gun, but, at the same time, the self-propelled version of that tank, the Su-100, without a turret, was upgraded to carry a 100mm gun.

I'm confused over whether the early T-34s had a 76mm gun, or a 76.2mm gun like the ZIS-76 AT gun. I don't understand how an SU-100 could be upgraded to take a 100mm gun, if in some of the russian equipment the number meant the caliber of the gun.

As I said, the rule is that an SP version of a tank, without a turret, can always carry a bigger gun than its turreted tank version. The Tiger II carried an 88mm cannon but the Jagdtiger, based on the same chassis but without the rotating turret, carried a 128mm cannon. It was a trade off based on weight and size limitations: you could have a turreted tank capable of carrying a smaller gun or adopt the same chassis without a turret to carry a bigger gun. This meant a sacrifice in flexibility, since a tank is more capable on the batllefield than a turretless assault gun, but an assault gun or SP, invariaby carried a better high velocity cannon.

Looks like I should read the last bit, before I post rather than read as I post. Obviously, but it was Hitler who wanted to go for all out firepower, and actually the trade-off actually had a slight positive effect because ever since Kursk if the germans were on retreat, they wouldn't need to keep moving forward their equipment to attack so the Self-Propelled Gun could simply be abandoned, and perhaps the fuel stocks taken for better use. Wouldn't the turretless version have a larger gun as well, because you can make a hole in the tank for it to be fitted, while if you build a turret you couldn't expand it any way like that at all.

[Commissar D, the Evil]

It was an horrendous trip South to Bad Frostberg.

The road was simply a dark stream of civilian refugees mixed with Wehrmacht fugitives from countless shattered units, piled aboard over-loaded wagons, trucks and cars and mixed with knots of helpless men, women and children on foot--all headed North away from the town. Struggling against this enormous tide, these rivulets of people that combined into waves and eventually formed torrents of desperate fugitives were four German vehicles. Leading the way, or rather forcing its way forward through its sheer mass, was a Panzer IV J. A tiny, open-topped VW schwimmwagen followed in its path, carrying a driver and two hard-faced officers. Following behind the schwimmwagen was a signals van and, bringing up the rear, was a Raupenschlepper Ost, a fully tracked, but very slow, prime mover carrying fuel drums roped together under the canvass of its cargo bed.

The two officers in the schwimmwagen were complete strangers to each other and united only by their orders. The ranking officer and commander of the expedition was Colonel Rosselsprung, who had the immense bad luck of being in transit, following convalescent leave in Germany, when he was plucked from the train returning him to the front and given new orders. His face was obscured by the hood of his parka and barely visible to his subordinate and second in command, Hauptman Wilhelm Gruber. Hauptman Gruber was a skilled staff officer and the two had only met for the first time in the Division commander’s headquarters before setting off on their journey.

Neither Gruber nor Rosselsprung had even been given the chance to read their written orders before their urgent departure. But the essence of their mission was simple; they were to set out immediately for Bad Frostberg and organize a defense of the town, its roads and railway. They were given total authority over any German troops in the vicinity and were, under no circumstances, to allow the surrender or capture of the town.

In the simplicity of the orders, of course, dwelt the complexity of the task.

Division had no idea of what organized units existed in the vicinity, beyond a ragged Aufklarungs platoon and a few StuGs from GrossDeutschland and a few tanks from their own division. Although additional units—that is, bits and pieces of no longer intact units--were being directed towards the town, no one quite knew their strengths or capabilities. In point of fact, the division itself was on its last legs and in severe danger of dissolving. Its front had been penetrated in so many places that the possibility of presenting a coherent defense against the fast advancing Red Army grew slimmer with each hour.

Colonel Rosselsprung had gathered that much of an appreciation of the situation in the few hours he spent at divisional headquarters. Hauptman Gruber, a member of the division’s staff, knew the details of the division’s defeat for several days and cynically regarded this mission as another of the “Himmelfahrts” devised by the geniuses at Corps or Army Gruppe level.

So, without knowing what they were to command or what they were going to fight against, the to officers and their pitiable caravan set off against the tide towards Bad Frostberg.

The cold and noise of the journey prevented them from sharing thoughts. Rosselsprung’s reputation as a gifted tank commander was some comfort to Gruber. On his part, Rosselsprung considered that Gruber’s presence on this mission could only mean that Division had faith in the Hauptman’s organizational ability.

But Rosselsprung wasn’t really concentrating on his companion in fate. Truthfully, he still suffered pain from his earlier wounds and the discomfort of the journey was nearly overwhelming at times. Beyond that, the sight of seeing his countrymen reduced to a rabble running for their lives bit into his flesh and soul far beyond any doubts or fears he might have held about his mission.

As a soldier and a German, he mentally rejected the disorder and chaos he saw on the road and bent his intellect towards the task of bringing it all to an end--somehow. In thinking about this, his silence hid his anxieties and allowed him the luxury of time to think ahead of his task.

Hauptman Gruber, a much more exuberant personality, took that silence as a slight upon his importance and knowledge. But, he also considered that the Knight’s Cross hung from Rosselsprung’s neck and that stark trinket of bravery gave him the slightest hope of surviving the next few days, no matter how unfriendly its wearer might be.

It’s an odd thing, Gruber thought to himself, what symbols men see hope in when they are on the brink of death….

No hiding place down here!
There’s no hiding place down here!
You know I went to the rock to hide my face but the rock cried out: no hiding place!
There’s no hiding place down here....

[Commissar D, the Evil]

Hanson’s men joined the throngs of refugees on the main road North to Bad Frostberg and keeping them from simply melting into the crowd absorbed every moment of his and Arajs’ time. The Latvians’, as usual, clung together, but the others tried to slip away, to drop their packs and weapons and intermingle with the civilians.

With kicks, curses and frequent boots to the arse, Arajs and Max beat them into a column of sorts and tried to form them into a marching unit. But the men resisted, however passively.

And the civilians themselves seemed to resent their presence. A few went as far as to offer the soldiers pieces of civilian cloths, a coat or a hat, under the guise of helping them stay warm.
Max recognized these efforts as what they were—the civilians, in their overwhelming ignorance of the enemy, felt they would be safer without armed German soldiers among them and, correspondingly, many of the soldiers felt they would be safer in civilian clothing, without their weapons or uniforms.
But Max was having none of this. He particularly concentrated his attention, as he had in the forest, on those of his troops carrying the precious panzerfausts.

His patience finally snapped when he saw one of the men hop on to a cart and toss his panzerfaust into the snow bank at the edge of the road.

Max picked the weapon up, handed it to another soldier and ordered the men to halt. This stopped the entire flow of refugees behind them. He ran to the cart, grabbed the soldier by an arm and dragged him off the cart and on to the road.
“Swine!” Max raged. The soldier pulled himself up out of the snow, a grave error in judgement. Hanson jerked a rifle out of the numb hands of one of the other men and butt-stroked the offender with it, sending the man tumbling back on to the road, blood spurting from his broken nose.
The civilians on the cart and those walking besides it stared at him, wide-eyed and suddenly fearful.

“F******g piece of s**t deserter!” Max raised the rifle to his shoulder and placed its muzzle on the man’s forehead. “I’ll f******g shoot you here, you cowardly piece of traitorous s***t!”
The fallen man whimpered something, but things happened very quickly after that moment. One of the women on the cart cursed Max and his S.S. runes. Behind the halted lines of soldiers, the refugges at the end of the column, made even more desperate by the sudden stop, began to yell and push Hanson’s men. Then, when his men pushed back, the refugees cursed and spat at them. A few blows were exchanged.

Distracted, Max pulled the weapon back and looked behind him. Instantly, another soldier was upon him, trying to wrench the rifle from his hands and the crowd behind his unit surged forward threateningly.
Arajs fired a burst from his machine pistol into the air, but Hanson found himself on his back, fighting not one, but two of his own men. Knowing that his own MP-40 was strapped uselessly to his back, he held on grimly to the rifle, sensing that he was moments away from being shot himself. Arajs was too far away to be of any help and occupied himself at keeping the mob of refugees at bay. His Latvians formed a tight knot behind him, no doubt realizing that if anything happened to him, they, as S.S. troops and foreigners, would be the next victims of the mob.

Max felt a kick and then another one to his ribs and a heavy blow to his forehead as another soldier jumped on him. One man sat on his chest, trying to take the rifle from him, another was kicking him and the third was trying to pin his arms. With all of his strength, Max struggled as he absorbed more kicks and punches. The man on his chest released one end of the rifle, using his free hand to land a solid punch on Hanson’s jaw.

This was a mistake, as Max, even as his head recoiled from the blow, managed to pull the trigger.
By sheer chance, the bullet caught the soldier sitting on his chest in the throat—the man’s torso straightened up from the impact and then fell forward over Max’s upper body and head.

This brought the soldier kicking him to his senses and, realizing he was in a gunfight, he stepped back, pulled his own rifle off of his back and aimed it at Hanson.
“Pop!”
The single shot drilled a neat hole through that soldier’s helmet, in one side and straight out the other. As the soldier’s body collapsed, the third assailant quickly flung his hands into the air. Hanson used the moment and the leverage of the rifle to push the dead man off of him.
Still reeling from the attack, Hanson got to his feet and, although his arms and hands were shaking, put a bullet through the third soldier’s chest. Then he turned his attention back to the man whose nose he had broken.

This man, who had remained on the ground throughout the fight, gibbered something, begging for his life in a half sentence before Hanson shot him in the head.

Ignoring the civilians, who were by now silent, Hanson turned to the other soldiers. They were staring at him on one side and at Wilhelm Fredrik on the other side of the road. W.F. had leveled his rifle at them after shooting Hanson’s second attacker through the head.

If his own head weren’t still spinning, Hanson would have managed a speech of some sort. But he contented himself instead by dropping the rifle, unshouldering his MP-40, and firing a short burst into each of the bodies on the road.
As the corpses quivered from the impact of the bullets, Hanson concluded that he had made his point.

For his part, Arajs fired another burst over the refugee’s heads and brought the smoking barrel down to waist level. The civilians seemed to flinch en masse .

W.F., his weapon still aimed at the motley group of soldiers, walked slowly over to Hanson’s side, his eyes never straying from the group of armed men. As a sniper by trade, this had been the first shot he had fired in the war that he would never speak of again. But, as an old soldier, a hardened frontsoldaten , he understood that this was as necessary a shot as the one that had earned him the Iron Cross two years ago. W.F. had never particularly liked Hanson, but he did have an undue affection for his own safety and knew, from experience, when that safety was threatened.
Hanson looked at him, winked and, regaining his poise despite his dizziness, yelled at the men.
“Form up, column of twos and march , Goddamn it!!!!”
The men fell in, without any eagerness, but certainly without any protests.
W.F., Max and Arajs stationed themselves at the edges of the column, fingers on triggers and snarls on their faces.


You know the sinners gonna be running at the knowledge of their fate
They gonna run to the rocks in the mountains but their prayers will be to late
You know they forgot about Jesus, not knowing the end was near
but they will be running, trying to find a hiding place when it comes their time to die..

[Commissar D, the Evil]

It seemed to Papa Brandt that his small wagon was caught in the middle of a great river that had neither a beginning nor an end--that is, that although the current of the river ran perceptibly, neither the river’s source nor ending could not be accurately gauged from their position somewhere in the middle of it. They were helpless and moving at the whim of forces they could neither see nor understand.

He and his beloved Anna were safely ensconced in the back of the wagon, shrouded in blankets and resting their heads on soft pillows rescued from their home. Anna appeared to be in a daze and said little, although she gently wept as the wagon carried them further and further away from their home. Czsimir and Ursula had gently tucked her into the wagon, so gently in fact that Brandt regretted his nagging doubts about their loyalty.

The Polish man and woman were not nearly so comfortable. Czsimir drove the wagon, handling the pair of horses with skill and patience, speaking softly to them when they became nervous as they often did as they had never been surrounded by such a horde of humanity and animals. It seemed that the entire population of their region was fleeing along this one road, accompanied by their horses or, perhaps, a milk cow or a hog, and packed into wagons, carts, sleds or the rare automoble or ancient truck.

Ursula sat on the hard wooden bench beside him and both were exposed to the cold winds and occasional snow flurry. They had wrapped themselves in layers of clothing, added scarves, mittens and spare blankets, but even Papa Brandt knew that they were suffering from the cold.

Still, they did not utter a word of protest nor even reproach the elderly couple with a stray look or a harsh word. Brandt did not pretend to understand them or what motivated him. His only feelings at this time were those of gratitude and disgust at himself for being so helpless, so aged that he could not endure the driving himself. He drifted off to sleep, oblivious to the moans of the less fortunate who trudged behind or besides the wagon, oblivious to the occasional scream or cry of pain. And he dreamed of his sons, somewhere in this war enduring worse than their suffering.

What his wife and he would do in Bad Frostberg or beyond was a mystery to him. He found that he could not focus on the future, only on getting past this miserable journey and finding safety and warmth somewhere.

Ursula and Czsimir meanwhile communicated only in whispers, even when the old couple dozed off. Ursula had never seen such sights as the misery on the road. Czsimir had seen that and much worse in the first year of the war and in his youth, so he spent his time reassuring the young woman, even if all he could offer as reassurance was the fact that things could be much, much worse.

Ursula still worried that they had made the wrong choice, the wrong decision, but Czsimir patiently explained his experiences after the First World War, the “Great War” that, to his logic, had given birth to this war.
What Czsimir really worried about was that they all would survive this trek, that they would not succumb to the cold or starvation or marauding armed men interested in searching for wealth or interested in Ursula herself. The lives of the Brandts, in his opinion, were not worth anyone killing them over, but loot and women--well, as a former soldier, he knew what beasts men could be when chasing those lusts.

But he had taken what little precautions he could to ensure their survival and had made sure that the wagon was packed with the essentials, even feed for the horses if they had to go beyond Bad Frostberg. Of course, this had meant disobeying Herr Brandt and "accidently" leaving some of the family's "valuables" behind. Czsimir was a realist, to the very marrow of his bones and didn't intend to leave those bones on a road in Prussia for the sake of a few sentimental burdens. His intent was survival, it was that simple. Having lived so long as a slave on the edge of the blade of surivival, disobeying an order for survival's sake was a minor offense, not worth a worry or regret.

So they continued on, drifting, a single leaf fallen into a stream. The skies gradually cleared during the day and the snow stopped falling. It seemed, at first, a blessing, but then came the Red Air Force and what seemed to be God's mercy quickly became the Devil's pleasure....

[M.H.]

Wow!
Now that was worth waiting for!!!
(And I managed NOT to nag...)

But...*phew*...for a second I feared you would finish me...erm...Max off...
*mops sweat from face*
Still...another chapter to live for Max and Co!

(I could see the long trecks of desperate refugees in my head)

But...who is "Hanson"???

[Commissar D, the Evil]

Say M.H., good to hear from you! Sorry if I screwed up the spelling! It was hard to get back into the story and I've made multiple edits on these posts.

I don't really have the time to write anymore, but it is one of the few pleasures I have, so don't be too disappointed!

Very Best,
David

[M.H.]

I'm so sorry to hear you have no time for writing anymore...at least I hope it's a good reason!

You never disappoint...we wouldn't all so eagerly await each new chapter, now wouldn't we?

PS: The fight with the deserter was really though!

[Commissar D, the Evil]

Death came.
Death came from an iron-grey sky, devoid of clouds and riding wings adorned with bright red stars.

Max and Arajs got their men off the road and into the snow at the first sound of airplane engines. They flattened hemselves on their bellies and grasped either their weapons or their helmets.

The Soviet planes dived upon the meandering column of people, machines and animals, chopping at it with cannon, machine-guns and bombs.

They began their runs at a leisurely pace, in perfect formation and without opposition. It was obvious--it had to have been obvious--that the people on the road were civilian refugees. Certainly the lack of any anit-aircraft fire once the attacks began would have convinced any Soviet pilot that their target was unarmed. But the lack of opposition merely served to encourage the airmen, who took their time and raked the endless column piece by piece, shredding it, mincing it and murdering it with all of the power of modern ground attack aircraft.

Alex Krugel had lugged his MG-42 for miles under the watchful eye of Max Hansen. He and his loader lay in the snow as the Soviets formed up for the attack. His loader gladly accepted the burden of the MG on his back and the pair were about to stand up and fire back when Hansen angrily yelled at them to get down and stay quiet.

Max knew what he was doing, a single machine-gun wouldn't make a bit of difference against a squadron of Sturmoviks, but the destruction those aircraft caused left the MG crew crying bitterly in the snow.

One cannot quite appreciate the lethality of a Sturmovik until one has seen the arm of a baby, its tiny hand still clutching a rattle, torn off and hurtled twenty meters by a single cannon shell.

When the attack came in, Czsimir jumped out of the wagon and grabbed the horses' reins close to the bits in their muzzles--it was the only method he knew of to keep them from panicking and running. The wagon stayed at a dead halt, throughout the attack, the horses rearing and snorting, with Czsimir fighting to keep them under control and hanging on to them for dear life. Of course he and the wagon were perfect targets, but in the back of his mind, he knew that one couldn't outrun an airplane in a two-horse wagon. So he strained to keep them under control as the Red Airforce gleefully strafed and bombed the road.

Ursula, feeling the deepest fear of her life, flung herself from the wagon and hid in the snow. Old Papa Brandt saw the airplanes, circling like vultures, and pulled his wife closer, hugging her and protectively laying his body over hers as she screamed and screamed.

And the airplanes dove on them until they had expended all of their bombs and hundreds and hundreds of rounds of cannon shells and machine-gun bullets on the helpless people below them.....

[Alex Coles]

So, exactly where am I in the story ?

[Commissar D, the Evil]

I just introduced you as "Alex Krugel"an MG gunner. Uh, 17th S.S., this is going to be a looooong story. I haven't even introduced Rudi S. yet.....

Patience, no one knows what will happen to him in war.

Best,
~D, the EviL