Dirlie, I think this is one of the things that distinguishes this story from a lot of David's previous writings. He is doing a much better job of developing good mental pictures of what's going on. He is doing much better at helping you to feel the cold, the fatigue, and the anguish that were all so overwhelmingly present in those days.
As much as I liked some of his other work, this one is shaping up to be his best one. It will be hard to match this one!
So....My Tank Corps in Prussia...
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Tom Houlihan
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Commissar D, the Evil
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The snowstorm was a minor annoyance to Tom and his crew, who needed a minimum of visibility to continue scouting. It was a welcome shield for Jan-Hendrik’s crew, who used the time to camouflage their Jagdpanther with branches, cook a little food and generally relax before the anticipated fight. Jan-Hendrik kept one of them on watch well away from the vehicle at all times, as he was worried about the possibility of Russian infantry stumbling upon them.
For the ferocious and determined Savkin, whose objectives were as clear as a sheet of ice, the the blizzard meant nothing less than righteous frustration. As a Communist, Savkin didn’t believe in God and was forced to write the uncooperative weather down as simple bad luck, an unfortunate occurrence that didn’t spare either his troops or sub-commanders from his venomous comments that reflected his disappointment.
Savkin desperately wanted to attack. He could taste his victories already, but aside from sending out a few infantry patrols, he knew he couldn’t safely advance into the unknown terrain before him. So he sat on the fender of his tank on his hill, cursing softly under his breath or cursing loadly at any unfortunate soldier in his sight, while the weather worsened and the landscape in his view became less and less distinct, blurred even through his binoculars.
The only group that truly appreciated the blinding snow was that small remnant of Hansen’s unit slowly working its way back to German lines.
The sniper W.F. led the little group, acting as point man and relying on his excellent eyesight and even better instincts to find them a path. Rottenfuhrer Arajs followed with his little, tight cadre of Latvian S.S men. Behind them marched Alex Krugel and his loader, still toting their MG-42 and boxes of ammunition with soldierly determination. After them, a few German troops struggled to keep up, a shrunken contingent of helmet-less and often weaponless landsers, constantly looking behind themselves for imaginary Russians.
Rottenfuhrer Hansen brought up the rear. Arajs could have sworn that he was straggling, assuming that one could straggle in knee deep snow, and dropped back to have a word with him.
“You intend to join us anytime soon?” Arajs jibed.
“F***k you--you snow-hopping, tree-loving savage!” Hansen replied, puffing and gasping. The entire front of his uniform was stained in frozen blood. The blood had turned black from the cold and stiffened the fabric of his coat.
Arajs grabbed his pack. “You should drop this, it’s too heavy.”
Hansen looked at him wearily. Sweat dripped down his forehead, not yet frozen into beads of frost. Arajs retained his grin and Hansen straightened, dropping his pack into the snow, retaining only his canteen, weapons and ammo.
“Better?” Arajs asked. Hansen was too tired to do more than nod and Arajs started to return to the column.
“Arajs,” Hansen called after him as the wind blew snow into his mouth.
Stopping, Arajs turned and took a few steps back.
“I might not be much good to you in the future”, Hansen confessed, his voice tired but purposeful.
It was Arajs turn to nod. “Ja, Hansen, just keep up, okay?”
Arajs had turned away when Max stumbled again and picked himself up. He couldn’t explain what was happening to him, his body simply wouldn’t accommodate his will and his mind registered an intense exhaustion with each step. It wasn’t quite pain, Hansen knew pain rather intimately, it was more a feeling that his body was shutting down, imperceptivily turning itself off to sensation little by little. Small things, like adjusting his hood or readjusting the strap of his MP-40 were becoming increasingly difficult.
Yet he wasn’t wounded, only a “bit tired”, he told himself.
The little group skirted the Soviet positions on the hill and trudged into the snow-bound valley, their white-camouflaged parkas quickly blending into the storm.
For the ferocious and determined Savkin, whose objectives were as clear as a sheet of ice, the the blizzard meant nothing less than righteous frustration. As a Communist, Savkin didn’t believe in God and was forced to write the uncooperative weather down as simple bad luck, an unfortunate occurrence that didn’t spare either his troops or sub-commanders from his venomous comments that reflected his disappointment.
Savkin desperately wanted to attack. He could taste his victories already, but aside from sending out a few infantry patrols, he knew he couldn’t safely advance into the unknown terrain before him. So he sat on the fender of his tank on his hill, cursing softly under his breath or cursing loadly at any unfortunate soldier in his sight, while the weather worsened and the landscape in his view became less and less distinct, blurred even through his binoculars.
The only group that truly appreciated the blinding snow was that small remnant of Hansen’s unit slowly working its way back to German lines.
The sniper W.F. led the little group, acting as point man and relying on his excellent eyesight and even better instincts to find them a path. Rottenfuhrer Arajs followed with his little, tight cadre of Latvian S.S men. Behind them marched Alex Krugel and his loader, still toting their MG-42 and boxes of ammunition with soldierly determination. After them, a few German troops struggled to keep up, a shrunken contingent of helmet-less and often weaponless landsers, constantly looking behind themselves for imaginary Russians.
Rottenfuhrer Hansen brought up the rear. Arajs could have sworn that he was straggling, assuming that one could straggle in knee deep snow, and dropped back to have a word with him.
“You intend to join us anytime soon?” Arajs jibed.
“F***k you--you snow-hopping, tree-loving savage!” Hansen replied, puffing and gasping. The entire front of his uniform was stained in frozen blood. The blood had turned black from the cold and stiffened the fabric of his coat.
Arajs grabbed his pack. “You should drop this, it’s too heavy.”
Hansen looked at him wearily. Sweat dripped down his forehead, not yet frozen into beads of frost. Arajs retained his grin and Hansen straightened, dropping his pack into the snow, retaining only his canteen, weapons and ammo.
“Better?” Arajs asked. Hansen was too tired to do more than nod and Arajs started to return to the column.
“Arajs,” Hansen called after him as the wind blew snow into his mouth.
Stopping, Arajs turned and took a few steps back.
“I might not be much good to you in the future”, Hansen confessed, his voice tired but purposeful.
It was Arajs turn to nod. “Ja, Hansen, just keep up, okay?”
Arajs had turned away when Max stumbled again and picked himself up. He couldn’t explain what was happening to him, his body simply wouldn’t accommodate his will and his mind registered an intense exhaustion with each step. It wasn’t quite pain, Hansen knew pain rather intimately, it was more a feeling that his body was shutting down, imperceptivily turning itself off to sensation little by little. Small things, like adjusting his hood or readjusting the strap of his MP-40 were becoming increasingly difficult.
Yet he wasn’t wounded, only a “bit tired”, he told himself.
The little group skirted the Soviet positions on the hill and trudged into the snow-bound valley, their white-camouflaged parkas quickly blending into the storm.
Last edited by Commissar D, the Evil on Fri Oct 20, 2006 11:36 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
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Commissar D, the Evil
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Czsimir carried Papa Brandt on his back. As a matter of survival, they had abandoned their efforts to pull the wagon when Papa Brandt fainted. All they managed to save from it was their food and the few gold coins that the Brandt’s had hoarded away for an emergency. Anna Brandt, covered in a blanket, hung on to Ursula’s arm as the four made their way to Bad Frostberg. Luckily, they were very close and even as the weather worsened, Czsimir radiated a confidence that they would make it.
The crowds on the roads had diminished significantly and they were near to the end of the lines of refugees, among the other weak and unfortunate folks who forced to walk.
Ursula kept her head down, cradling Anna Brandt in her arms and, at first, counting her steps to keep her mind off of the multitude of tragedies visible on the road. The old lady wept softly, but Ursula couldn’t understand, or rather, refused to bring herself to comprehend exactly why she cried. There were too many things to weep about and to single out any one cause couldn't possibly do justice to Anna Brandt's misery.
Ursula realized, with stark clarity, that the Brandts had lost their home, all of their worldly property, even their two good horses which had been Papa Brandt’s pride. Both were wounded and, like Czsimir and Ursula, both were suffering from the extreme cold and physical rigors of their flight. They had all seen, with their own eyes, hundreds of people killed grotesquely and for no real purpose.
What did all of this mean to a mere Polish slave? Ursula wondered, certain that the sturdy Czsimir held the same unanswered questions. But she had also gathered that Czsimir had his own reasons for fearing the Red Army, reasons that, in all probability, had nothing to do with her life and her future. A sinister thought began to surface in her mind, that perhaps what was good for the Brandts and for Czsimir, was not so good for her future. And perhaps, the hard but not unendurable life they had lived with the Brandts was irrevocably shattered and one of many things to be relegated to her past, along with the loyaties that arose from it.
It would have been simple to surrender herself to the logic of her fears. Easy indeed, had it not been for the numerous lumps in the snow.
Keeping her head down meant that she noticed the lumps more than the crying Anna Brandt or her semi-conscious husband being carried on Czsimir’s broad back. Whether Czsimir himself noticed them, Ursula didn’t know, since she couldn’t ask him without further frightening the old lady.
The lumps in the snow were large, for the most part, but sometimes distressingly small. Each was covered with a few inches of newly fallen snow, but it didn’t take either an active imagination or a majr effort to understand what they contained. The snow could not cover everything—it never did. From some of the lumps, a frozen hand emerged or a booted foot and even, one time, the painted toenails of one unfortunate woman whose shoes were missing.
This was the fate of those killed by strafing aircraft or simply to weak to withstand the weather and physical strain of their flight.
Strangely, the frozen lumps became more common the closer they were to Bad Frostberg. Perhaps, Ursula reasoned, the unfortunates had reached the end of their endurance the closer they got to safety. If so, it was an irony whoes cruelty she didn't appreciate. Ursula lifted her head and tossed back the blanket covering it so that she could see more of what was happening.
Some few souls were simply sitting in the snow at the side of the road. Just sitting. Some stared back at her, others looked beyond her, avoiding eye contact with her. One or two struggled to get back up on their feet, but Ursula noticed that a lone person rarely sought to rise again once he or she collapsed—that, from what little she could see, the fallen only arose again if someone were there to help or prod them to their feet. A husband, a wife, a grandfather, a grandmother, a brother or a sister, Ursula could only guess at their relationships. But she could see that those who sat by the road generally sat alone, unless it was an elderly couple, grasping each others hands and sitting with their heads slumped against that of their companion.
Like the lumps in the snow, these observations only emphasized her desire to survive, at any cost. She would not end her life on a road in the enemy’s land, hunted and starved like a stray dog. And she would not simply lie in a ditch or sit on a snow bank and wait for death.
A German half-track sped south, by the side of the road, its treads churning up clots of ice and snow. Czsimir saw it and, heedless of his own safety, stepped out of the line of refugees, desperately waving to it while hanging on to Papa Brandt.
To Czsimir's utter amazement, the half-track stopped.
Acting without orders and strictly on his own iniative, Dr. Krollspell had hoped to reach the end of the refugee column before setting up shop, but it stretched so far along that he despaired of that goal. When the man carrying an old man on his back emerged from the faceless mass, pity compelled him to order his Sanitatsfahrzeug to stop.
Reassured by the large red crosses painted on its side, Czsimir seized the opportunity to push through the snow to it, imploring its occupants for help in his heavily accented German.
Dr. Krollspell opened the back hatch of the Sd.Kfz. 251/8. It could accommodate only four stretcher cases or ten lightly wounded people—a pathetic capacity considering what he had already seen on the road. But this seemed as good a spot to start in as any.
Quickly, examining Herr Brandt, Dr. Krollspell determined that his wounds were not critical, but that only left him with the decision of what to do next, since there was little doubt in his mind that the old man could not survive the remainder of the journey to Bad Frostberg.
In the minutes it took him to complete the examination, other unfortunates had flocked to his machine. The Doctor hastily instructed Czsmir to lay Brandt in the back of the ambulance as his crew folded up the stretchers, to make room for as many patients as they could carry.
Czsimir and Ursula begged him to take Anna Brandt as well, but her facial wound were clearly superficial and insufficient to warrant taking up critical space in the vehilce. The Doctor moved on to a new patient, saying roughly only that they could find Herr Brandt in the main hospital at Bad Frostberg once they reached it.
He had barely gotten those words out when other wounded and their families mobbed the lone AFV. Czsimir, Ursula and Anna were forced away from the ambulance by the press of injured, frozen people, begging for help or aid of any sort.
It actually took a burst of MG fire above the heads of the desperate people to settle things down and enable Krollspell to order them into a line so that he could begin to establish a system of triage.
Czsimir, Ursula and Anna got back on the road and continued their journey, made harder now by Anna’s screams and sobbing at being separated from her husband. Ursula and Czsimir tried their best to reassure her but at the same time firmly led her by her arms towards Bad Frostberg, despite her pleas and fright at being seperated from the last thing left to her in life that she loved--her husband, Ernst.
The crowds on the roads had diminished significantly and they were near to the end of the lines of refugees, among the other weak and unfortunate folks who forced to walk.
Ursula kept her head down, cradling Anna Brandt in her arms and, at first, counting her steps to keep her mind off of the multitude of tragedies visible on the road. The old lady wept softly, but Ursula couldn’t understand, or rather, refused to bring herself to comprehend exactly why she cried. There were too many things to weep about and to single out any one cause couldn't possibly do justice to Anna Brandt's misery.
Ursula realized, with stark clarity, that the Brandts had lost their home, all of their worldly property, even their two good horses which had been Papa Brandt’s pride. Both were wounded and, like Czsimir and Ursula, both were suffering from the extreme cold and physical rigors of their flight. They had all seen, with their own eyes, hundreds of people killed grotesquely and for no real purpose.
What did all of this mean to a mere Polish slave? Ursula wondered, certain that the sturdy Czsimir held the same unanswered questions. But she had also gathered that Czsimir had his own reasons for fearing the Red Army, reasons that, in all probability, had nothing to do with her life and her future. A sinister thought began to surface in her mind, that perhaps what was good for the Brandts and for Czsimir, was not so good for her future. And perhaps, the hard but not unendurable life they had lived with the Brandts was irrevocably shattered and one of many things to be relegated to her past, along with the loyaties that arose from it.
It would have been simple to surrender herself to the logic of her fears. Easy indeed, had it not been for the numerous lumps in the snow.
Keeping her head down meant that she noticed the lumps more than the crying Anna Brandt or her semi-conscious husband being carried on Czsimir’s broad back. Whether Czsimir himself noticed them, Ursula didn’t know, since she couldn’t ask him without further frightening the old lady.
The lumps in the snow were large, for the most part, but sometimes distressingly small. Each was covered with a few inches of newly fallen snow, but it didn’t take either an active imagination or a majr effort to understand what they contained. The snow could not cover everything—it never did. From some of the lumps, a frozen hand emerged or a booted foot and even, one time, the painted toenails of one unfortunate woman whose shoes were missing.
This was the fate of those killed by strafing aircraft or simply to weak to withstand the weather and physical strain of their flight.
Strangely, the frozen lumps became more common the closer they were to Bad Frostberg. Perhaps, Ursula reasoned, the unfortunates had reached the end of their endurance the closer they got to safety. If so, it was an irony whoes cruelty she didn't appreciate. Ursula lifted her head and tossed back the blanket covering it so that she could see more of what was happening.
Some few souls were simply sitting in the snow at the side of the road. Just sitting. Some stared back at her, others looked beyond her, avoiding eye contact with her. One or two struggled to get back up on their feet, but Ursula noticed that a lone person rarely sought to rise again once he or she collapsed—that, from what little she could see, the fallen only arose again if someone were there to help or prod them to their feet. A husband, a wife, a grandfather, a grandmother, a brother or a sister, Ursula could only guess at their relationships. But she could see that those who sat by the road generally sat alone, unless it was an elderly couple, grasping each others hands and sitting with their heads slumped against that of their companion.
Like the lumps in the snow, these observations only emphasized her desire to survive, at any cost. She would not end her life on a road in the enemy’s land, hunted and starved like a stray dog. And she would not simply lie in a ditch or sit on a snow bank and wait for death.
A German half-track sped south, by the side of the road, its treads churning up clots of ice and snow. Czsimir saw it and, heedless of his own safety, stepped out of the line of refugees, desperately waving to it while hanging on to Papa Brandt.
To Czsimir's utter amazement, the half-track stopped.
Acting without orders and strictly on his own iniative, Dr. Krollspell had hoped to reach the end of the refugee column before setting up shop, but it stretched so far along that he despaired of that goal. When the man carrying an old man on his back emerged from the faceless mass, pity compelled him to order his Sanitatsfahrzeug to stop.
Reassured by the large red crosses painted on its side, Czsimir seized the opportunity to push through the snow to it, imploring its occupants for help in his heavily accented German.
Dr. Krollspell opened the back hatch of the Sd.Kfz. 251/8. It could accommodate only four stretcher cases or ten lightly wounded people—a pathetic capacity considering what he had already seen on the road. But this seemed as good a spot to start in as any.
Quickly, examining Herr Brandt, Dr. Krollspell determined that his wounds were not critical, but that only left him with the decision of what to do next, since there was little doubt in his mind that the old man could not survive the remainder of the journey to Bad Frostberg.
In the minutes it took him to complete the examination, other unfortunates had flocked to his machine. The Doctor hastily instructed Czsmir to lay Brandt in the back of the ambulance as his crew folded up the stretchers, to make room for as many patients as they could carry.
Czsimir and Ursula begged him to take Anna Brandt as well, but her facial wound were clearly superficial and insufficient to warrant taking up critical space in the vehilce. The Doctor moved on to a new patient, saying roughly only that they could find Herr Brandt in the main hospital at Bad Frostberg once they reached it.
He had barely gotten those words out when other wounded and their families mobbed the lone AFV. Czsimir, Ursula and Anna were forced away from the ambulance by the press of injured, frozen people, begging for help or aid of any sort.
It actually took a burst of MG fire above the heads of the desperate people to settle things down and enable Krollspell to order them into a line so that he could begin to establish a system of triage.
Czsimir, Ursula and Anna got back on the road and continued their journey, made harder now by Anna’s screams and sobbing at being separated from her husband. Ursula and Czsimir tried their best to reassure her but at the same time firmly led her by her arms towards Bad Frostberg, despite her pleas and fright at being seperated from the last thing left to her in life that she loved--her husband, Ernst.
Last edited by Commissar D, the Evil on Fri Oct 20, 2006 10:17 pm, edited 4 times in total.
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
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Commissar D, the Evil
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Ah M.H., leave it to you to focus on the hardest parts of the Tale! Poor Max is worn out, a dangerous thing for a soldier. The Brandts are seperated, another dangerous thing in an era when families were seperated forever and one mis-step meant that one might lose a child or a husband forever.
Ah, what can I say? The tale is not writen yet, it goes step by step, installment by installment. We can only wait and see.
Very Best,
David
Ah, what can I say? The tale is not writen yet, it goes step by step, installment by installment. We can only wait and see.
Very Best,
David
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
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Fraulein Valkyrie
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You’re right, M.H. But Dr. Krollspell may be the real hero here. Sometime the decision of who dies is much easier than the one of who lives.M.H. wrote:I wonder if the Brandts will ever see each other again...so many people lost their families on the big flights at the end of the war...
One or two struggled to get back up on their feet, but Ursula noticed that a lone person rarely sought to rise again once he or she collapsed—that, from what little she could see, the fallen only arose again if someone were there to help or prod them to their feet. A husband, a wife, a grandfather, a grandmother, a brother or a sister, Ursula could only guess at their relationships. But she could see that those who sat by the road generally sat alone, unless it was an elderly couple, grasping each others hands and sitting with their heads slumped against that of their companion.
Czsimir, Ursula and Anna got back on the road and continued their journey, made harder now by Anna’s screams and sobbing at being separated from her husband. Ursula and Czsimir tried their best to reassure her but at the same time firmly led her by her arms towards Bad Frostberg, despite her pleas and fright at being seperated from the last thing left to her in life that she loved--her husband, Ernst.
Another excellent civilian chapter, David.
~FV
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Commissar D, the Evil
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W.F. stopped, motionless in his tracks. Ahead of him loomed the barely visible outline of a stone farmhouse, but he was facing away from it. Arajs saw him halt and crept through the snow to reach him. W.F. put one finger on his lips, indicating to Arajs that he be silent. Then the sniper hefted his rifle to his shoulder. He didn’t fire, he used it only to indicate a direction to Arajs.
With hand signs, Arajs alerted his men to the direction of the threat and the need for silence.
The freezing winds were howling in their ears and the snow, mixed with sleet, beat against their helmets and faces. Arajs' troops unslung their weapons and aimed them at invisible foes. No one had anticipated a chance collision with a Russian patrol—not in this weather. Arajs judged that the farmhouse was 100 meters away, but the farmhouse was not their objective. Having studied the maps, Arajs knew that the farmhouse sat in open terrain in the valley and was no more than a trap when the weather cleared. His hopes were to pass it—and the valley—and escape into the forest beyond.
W.F. judged, from sounds he heard only vaguely, that the Russian patrol was approaching on a parallel course and probably had the same destination. He dropped to one knee and raised his rifle in their direction.
Arajs quietly trotted back to the main body of the men, giving instructions and emphasizing the need to pass the farmhouse and reach the forest. His instructions to Krugel and his loader were the most detailed and specific—under no circumstances was he to fire more than a few bursts before he got the MG-42 on the move. The weapon’s signature could only draw fire, since, in this weather, muzzle blasts would be the chief aiming point of the enemy.
Krugel and his loader quickly set up the heavy tripod.
W.F. listened intently. The Russians were chattering amongst themselves, plainly unaware of their presence. Such carelessness often affects the victorious. Having not yet faced real opposition, they had been lured into a state of indiscipline that a forced patrol in a snowstorm only enhanced. Denied the warmth and rest of the fires that comforted their comrades on the hill, they sought amusement and relaxation despite the cold and snow.
W.F. could see the glow of their cigarettes and smell their cheap tobacco.
Without knowing it, W.F. grinned. Arajs, kneeling next to him caught the grin, which made him suddenly uncomfortable as it was the grin of a man contemplating murder.
Wilhelm Friedrich, the master marksman, squeezed off a few shots at the glow of the cigarettes then switched his aim at the confused and outraged voices that followed in the storm.
His shots prompted a flurry of gunfire from the Latvians and Krugel. Krugel got off three long bursts before packing up and getting out of there.
Arajs waived the men past him and in the right direction.
The snow was still falling in sheets and no man could see with certainty more than a few feet beyond him. But W.F led the way and they passed the farmhouse on the run.
They were nearly at the edge of the forest when a high explosive shell erupted in the snow. Max Hansen, lagging behind the main group, was flung off his feet by the explosion.
Another shell landed near him and Max suddenly realized that, somehow, despite the snowstorm, he was the target.
From wall around the stone farmhouse crept a small Russian tank. A T-70, that Max recognized from his last fight. A part of him was unwilling to believe that he could possibly have such bad luck when the tank fired for the third time.
This shell landed a mere five meters from him.
Aboard the Jagdpanther, Jan-Hendrik did his best to make out the details of the firefight. It was clear that fleeing German infantry were running towards the forest. His scissor sights could make out that much. He could even make out the muzzle blast of a Soviet tank.
“Rudi?” Jan-Hendrik said into the intercom.
“No good!” Rudi answered. “Snow’s too bad and the optics have iced up.”
“So clean them, quickly!’
Rudi climbed out of the loader’s hatch with a rag.
Meanwhile, Max crawled through snow. The light tank ceased fire, but he could hear the sound of its engine and tracks. In fact, he could feel the tracks bite into the snow as the T-70 moved slowly towards him.
Hansen had only his MP-40. Hs mind screamed for his legs to move, but they weren't responding. Max pulled himself through the snow by his hands. He knew he wasn’t wounded but still couldn’t get to his feet.
The T-70 seemed to recognize his weakness. Its two GAZ 202 engines whining as it picked up speed, plowing through the snow with a demonic energy that seemed entirely focused on the near-helpless Hansen.
Max broke out into a sweat that enveloped his entire body, followed by series of intense chills and shivers. All of this happened in seconds as death approached on swift tracks.
Again, the T-70 didn’t bother with its machine gun to finish off the Rottenfuhrer crawling exhausted through the snow. Unwilling to further identify itself as a target, the T-70 intended to simply crush him under its tracks.
Max turned over on to his back. He had seen the last of his men reach the tree line and now the Soviet light tank was on him, chewing away the meters that separated them with a devilish ease.
As it approached, Max freed his MP-40, unwilling to die without even a show of resistance. His bullets clanged off the tank at twenty meters, making sparks as they ricocheted off its armor, but having no visible effect. Indeed, the machine seemed to shake off the fire and become even more determined, enraged by his pitiful efforts and encouraged by the hopelessness of his plight.
Ten meters away, Max could smell the fumes from its engines.
Five meters away and Max braced himself to feel the bite of its cold steel tracks.
“Wham!” The T-70 seemed to shake itself, like a dog emerging from a stream.
“Wham! The second explosion lifted the entire tank off of its tracks and disintegrated it as the Soviet vehicles' ammo exploded.
Twisted pieces of hot steel fell over Max, who, laying on his back, covered his face against the debris. The T-70 dissolved into a fireball that flung warped steel fragments into the air and field.
“Two shots?” Tom yelled angrily at Sam, his gunner. “Two shots against a light tank? I’d have done better throwing snowballs at it myself.”
“Ah ye soddin’ ponce, of course ye would 'ave…’ Sam grumbled back.
The Sd. Kfz. 234/2 “Puma”, slipped back into the woods, unseen in the snowstorm by either friend or foe.
With hand signs, Arajs alerted his men to the direction of the threat and the need for silence.
The freezing winds were howling in their ears and the snow, mixed with sleet, beat against their helmets and faces. Arajs' troops unslung their weapons and aimed them at invisible foes. No one had anticipated a chance collision with a Russian patrol—not in this weather. Arajs judged that the farmhouse was 100 meters away, but the farmhouse was not their objective. Having studied the maps, Arajs knew that the farmhouse sat in open terrain in the valley and was no more than a trap when the weather cleared. His hopes were to pass it—and the valley—and escape into the forest beyond.
W.F. judged, from sounds he heard only vaguely, that the Russian patrol was approaching on a parallel course and probably had the same destination. He dropped to one knee and raised his rifle in their direction.
Arajs quietly trotted back to the main body of the men, giving instructions and emphasizing the need to pass the farmhouse and reach the forest. His instructions to Krugel and his loader were the most detailed and specific—under no circumstances was he to fire more than a few bursts before he got the MG-42 on the move. The weapon’s signature could only draw fire, since, in this weather, muzzle blasts would be the chief aiming point of the enemy.
Krugel and his loader quickly set up the heavy tripod.
W.F. listened intently. The Russians were chattering amongst themselves, plainly unaware of their presence. Such carelessness often affects the victorious. Having not yet faced real opposition, they had been lured into a state of indiscipline that a forced patrol in a snowstorm only enhanced. Denied the warmth and rest of the fires that comforted their comrades on the hill, they sought amusement and relaxation despite the cold and snow.
W.F. could see the glow of their cigarettes and smell their cheap tobacco.
Without knowing it, W.F. grinned. Arajs, kneeling next to him caught the grin, which made him suddenly uncomfortable as it was the grin of a man contemplating murder.
Wilhelm Friedrich, the master marksman, squeezed off a few shots at the glow of the cigarettes then switched his aim at the confused and outraged voices that followed in the storm.
His shots prompted a flurry of gunfire from the Latvians and Krugel. Krugel got off three long bursts before packing up and getting out of there.
Arajs waived the men past him and in the right direction.
The snow was still falling in sheets and no man could see with certainty more than a few feet beyond him. But W.F led the way and they passed the farmhouse on the run.
They were nearly at the edge of the forest when a high explosive shell erupted in the snow. Max Hansen, lagging behind the main group, was flung off his feet by the explosion.
Another shell landed near him and Max suddenly realized that, somehow, despite the snowstorm, he was the target.
From wall around the stone farmhouse crept a small Russian tank. A T-70, that Max recognized from his last fight. A part of him was unwilling to believe that he could possibly have such bad luck when the tank fired for the third time.
This shell landed a mere five meters from him.
Aboard the Jagdpanther, Jan-Hendrik did his best to make out the details of the firefight. It was clear that fleeing German infantry were running towards the forest. His scissor sights could make out that much. He could even make out the muzzle blast of a Soviet tank.
“Rudi?” Jan-Hendrik said into the intercom.
“No good!” Rudi answered. “Snow’s too bad and the optics have iced up.”
“So clean them, quickly!’
Rudi climbed out of the loader’s hatch with a rag.
Meanwhile, Max crawled through snow. The light tank ceased fire, but he could hear the sound of its engine and tracks. In fact, he could feel the tracks bite into the snow as the T-70 moved slowly towards him.
Hansen had only his MP-40. Hs mind screamed for his legs to move, but they weren't responding. Max pulled himself through the snow by his hands. He knew he wasn’t wounded but still couldn’t get to his feet.
The T-70 seemed to recognize his weakness. Its two GAZ 202 engines whining as it picked up speed, plowing through the snow with a demonic energy that seemed entirely focused on the near-helpless Hansen.
Max broke out into a sweat that enveloped his entire body, followed by series of intense chills and shivers. All of this happened in seconds as death approached on swift tracks.
Again, the T-70 didn’t bother with its machine gun to finish off the Rottenfuhrer crawling exhausted through the snow. Unwilling to further identify itself as a target, the T-70 intended to simply crush him under its tracks.
Max turned over on to his back. He had seen the last of his men reach the tree line and now the Soviet light tank was on him, chewing away the meters that separated them with a devilish ease.
As it approached, Max freed his MP-40, unwilling to die without even a show of resistance. His bullets clanged off the tank at twenty meters, making sparks as they ricocheted off its armor, but having no visible effect. Indeed, the machine seemed to shake off the fire and become even more determined, enraged by his pitiful efforts and encouraged by the hopelessness of his plight.
Ten meters away, Max could smell the fumes from its engines.
Five meters away and Max braced himself to feel the bite of its cold steel tracks.
“Wham!” The T-70 seemed to shake itself, like a dog emerging from a stream.
“Wham! The second explosion lifted the entire tank off of its tracks and disintegrated it as the Soviet vehicles' ammo exploded.
Twisted pieces of hot steel fell over Max, who, laying on his back, covered his face against the debris. The T-70 dissolved into a fireball that flung warped steel fragments into the air and field.
“Two shots?” Tom yelled angrily at Sam, his gunner. “Two shots against a light tank? I’d have done better throwing snowballs at it myself.”
“Ah ye soddin’ ponce, of course ye would 'ave…’ Sam grumbled back.
The Sd. Kfz. 234/2 “Puma”, slipped back into the woods, unseen in the snowstorm by either friend or foe.
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
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Rosselsprung
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Commissar D, the Evil
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Even if their heaviest weapons were only one MG-42 and a few panzerfausts of dubious quality, it felt good, Jan-Hendrik thought, to have infantry around again.
Arajs’ men tucked themselves into a tight perimeter around his vehicle. As a sort of reward, the Jagdpanther crew generously shared a hot meal of potatoes and pork, cooked in a bucket hung from the vehicle’s exhaust.
Arajs himself took a couple men out and returned with Hansen, who seemed much the worse for wear. They placed him gently on the warm engine deck of the Jagdpanther. He didn't say anything to his rescuers and Arajs accepted his silence without protest.
The weather hadn’t changed since their arrival; the snow still fell heavily and the wind, if anything, was even icier.
But Jan-Hendrik was less worried now by marauding Russian infantry and felt that a clear resolution of their fate would wait, by necessity, until the skies cleared.
None of them knew it, but Lieutenant Savkin received orders from the Commissar that same day to advance the next morning, regardless of the weather or road conditions.
Arajs’ men tucked themselves into a tight perimeter around his vehicle. As a sort of reward, the Jagdpanther crew generously shared a hot meal of potatoes and pork, cooked in a bucket hung from the vehicle’s exhaust.
Arajs himself took a couple men out and returned with Hansen, who seemed much the worse for wear. They placed him gently on the warm engine deck of the Jagdpanther. He didn't say anything to his rescuers and Arajs accepted his silence without protest.
The weather hadn’t changed since their arrival; the snow still fell heavily and the wind, if anything, was even icier.
But Jan-Hendrik was less worried now by marauding Russian infantry and felt that a clear resolution of their fate would wait, by necessity, until the skies cleared.
None of them knew it, but Lieutenant Savkin received orders from the Commissar that same day to advance the next morning, regardless of the weather or road conditions.
Last edited by Commissar D, the Evil on Fri Oct 20, 2006 11:33 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
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Commissar D, the Evil
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Difficult to say, since no one dies before their time. However, we have reached a new era, so to speak, since the focus of this story is obviousy changing to Bad Frostberg--I mean, you don't seriously believe that two armored cars, a Jagdpanther and a few infantry can stop the Russians do you?How many lives does this Hansen character have?
Best,
~D, the EviL
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
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Commissar D, the Evil
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The gypsy's caravan of Colonel Rosselsprung and Hauptman Gruber arrived in Bad Frostberg only to find it every bit the nightmare of disorganization they anticipated. The town was packed with refugees and retreating soldiers torn lose form their units. A couple of Panthers stood idly in the town square next to a pair of Luftwaffe flak positions, but that was as close to an organized unit as one could see—if you didn’t count the columns of Volksturm troops marching towards the Southern road. As a professional soldier, Rosselsprung found it hard to count them, in their WWI helmets, civilian clothes and Swastika armbands, as anything but an armed rabble and duly ignored them.
The unmistakable stench of panic was in the air and groups of soldiers and civilians moved through the streets; the soldiers in packs, the civilians in familial groups, but all bent on one purpose—escape.
Rosselsprung recognized the power of this basic instinct and, before setting up his command post, had his driver take him to the rail stead. The only problem was that, compared to the heavy trucks and civilian cars headed in the same direction, not to mention the horrendous crowds of men and family on foot, the schimmwagen lacked the force to plow its way through to the railway station. Rosselsprung was forced to wait for the Panzer IV to rejoin him and push forward with his car following in its wake.
The railroad station itself resembled hundreds of others in Prussia. A long sheltered walkway and a tiny ticket house at its center inside a small waiting room. In other words, nothing elaborate or even unusual.
Indeed, it was so simplistic and rustic that in normal times, it would be a laughable stereotype of an out of the way country town station.
But these were far from normal times. Men, women and children stood in deep shuffling, pushing ranks of humanity around the train in the station. The train itself seemed to be held hostage by the mass of people, sitting in clouds of steam while its crew begged and pleaded with the hordes that surged into and around it. The train couldn’t leave, it could neither move forward nor reverse as too many people, including armed soldiers, surrounded it, standing on the tracks in front of it and behind, some with drawn weapons and others simply planting themselves firmly in its passenger cars. There were arguments and shouting everywhere, rising above the confusion of more plaintive voices.
Seeing the chaos and disintegration of order, Rosselsprung and Gruber temporarily abandoned the schimmwagen and climbed aboard the Panzer IV. The tank drove through the crowds and reached the train platform. Gruber looked at Rosselsprung in anticipation. How he would control this mob and restore order seemed to Gruber beyond the bounds of a normal man’s ingenuity.
Sensing his second in command’s uncertainty, Rosselsprung, his Ritterkreuz gleaming beneath his neck, said simply to him, “Back me and make certain no one takes a shot at me”.
Standing on its turret, Colonel Rosselsprung brandished an MP-40 submachine gun. Without hesitating, he fired a long burst into the air, at first straight into the sky, then bringing the weapon down, he fired it over the heads of the crowd. Some of the people immediately dove for cover, others simply stared at him in disbelief.
Gruber covered him, his own weapon aimed solely at the crowd. Firing a submachine gun into the air was a trick easily played on civilians, but with armed soldiers, it was a dangerous game, so Gruber closely observed the faces of the mixed bag of army and Luftwaffe personnel crowding the platform. If anyone raised weapon, he was prepared to fire and he had given orders that, if anyone actually shot at them, the Panzer IV would use its main armament against them. He didn’t actually expect that order to be carried out, if he and Colonel Rosselsprung were dead, but it gave him a certain amount of comfort.
Responding to his order, the turret of the Panzer IV slowly rotated towards the train.
“Who is in charge here!!! Rosselsprung thundered.
The crowd of soldiers and civilians looked about and it was immediately apparent to Rosselsprung (and to the crowd) that no one was in charge.
Rosselsprung fired another burst into the air, hoping to capitalize on the mobs’ momentary confusion. “Where are the military police and the officers?” All officers are now ordered to step forward!!!!”
Sheepishly, a couple of Leutnants, a Luftwaffe Major and a pair of Heer Captains pushed their way through the crowds.
“Join me by the panzer, Gentlemen!” Rosselsprung ordered in a less than friendly voice.
The officers, shamed into discipline, waded through the crowd and formed a small circle around the panzer.
“Who’s in charge of the military police?”
The “chain dogs” were few, but easily recognized by their bright gorgets. Once he called them out, it was impossible for them to hide in the anonymity of the crowd. They too appeared at the boundary of the mob. Rosselsprung selected the first Feldwebel his eyes fell upon--a big, strapping fellow—and vented his wrath.
“You are supposed to maintain order! Is that not your job? You’re a disgrace to your uniform and position! What is your name? Someone take down his name!”
The Feldwebel hung his head and muttered his name and rank.
Rosselsprung counted on the natural desire of Germans, especially Prussians and soldiers, for discipline, for a commanding voice. He wasn’t afraid and was prepared to play his hand until the end, even if it meant shooting a few folks.
Gruber was all for an inspiring performance and even more for restoring order, but thought the risks were great indeed.
“I want every soldier off that train—everyone who resists is to be shot!” Rosselsprung yelled at the “chain dogs”. “You are all German soldiers, not some lower breed of savages! Defend your Fatherland! I want this train cleared of soldiers immediately and formed into units so that we can defend our country!”
Rosselsprung knew how to strike the right notes. The Panzer’s turret moved slightly again and its gun lowered, aiming at the passenger cars. The “chain dogs” pushed into each car, ejecting the soldiers, whether armed or not.
Meanwhile, Rosselsprung ordered the officers to form march units with anyone in uniform and report to the town square. He expected at least half of them to melt way, but he was damned certain that none of them would be on this train.
“I’ll hang every coward that refuses to face the enemy!” Rosselsprung announced as the soldiers were gathered up in dribs and drabs.
In this, he was deadly serious and, that very day, the results of his public proclamation would be seen on lamp-posts throughout the town as he began his unflinching efforts to restore order in Bad Frostberg and organize a coherent defense.
The unmistakable stench of panic was in the air and groups of soldiers and civilians moved through the streets; the soldiers in packs, the civilians in familial groups, but all bent on one purpose—escape.
Rosselsprung recognized the power of this basic instinct and, before setting up his command post, had his driver take him to the rail stead. The only problem was that, compared to the heavy trucks and civilian cars headed in the same direction, not to mention the horrendous crowds of men and family on foot, the schimmwagen lacked the force to plow its way through to the railway station. Rosselsprung was forced to wait for the Panzer IV to rejoin him and push forward with his car following in its wake.
The railroad station itself resembled hundreds of others in Prussia. A long sheltered walkway and a tiny ticket house at its center inside a small waiting room. In other words, nothing elaborate or even unusual.
Indeed, it was so simplistic and rustic that in normal times, it would be a laughable stereotype of an out of the way country town station.
But these were far from normal times. Men, women and children stood in deep shuffling, pushing ranks of humanity around the train in the station. The train itself seemed to be held hostage by the mass of people, sitting in clouds of steam while its crew begged and pleaded with the hordes that surged into and around it. The train couldn’t leave, it could neither move forward nor reverse as too many people, including armed soldiers, surrounded it, standing on the tracks in front of it and behind, some with drawn weapons and others simply planting themselves firmly in its passenger cars. There were arguments and shouting everywhere, rising above the confusion of more plaintive voices.
Seeing the chaos and disintegration of order, Rosselsprung and Gruber temporarily abandoned the schimmwagen and climbed aboard the Panzer IV. The tank drove through the crowds and reached the train platform. Gruber looked at Rosselsprung in anticipation. How he would control this mob and restore order seemed to Gruber beyond the bounds of a normal man’s ingenuity.
Sensing his second in command’s uncertainty, Rosselsprung, his Ritterkreuz gleaming beneath his neck, said simply to him, “Back me and make certain no one takes a shot at me”.
Standing on its turret, Colonel Rosselsprung brandished an MP-40 submachine gun. Without hesitating, he fired a long burst into the air, at first straight into the sky, then bringing the weapon down, he fired it over the heads of the crowd. Some of the people immediately dove for cover, others simply stared at him in disbelief.
Gruber covered him, his own weapon aimed solely at the crowd. Firing a submachine gun into the air was a trick easily played on civilians, but with armed soldiers, it was a dangerous game, so Gruber closely observed the faces of the mixed bag of army and Luftwaffe personnel crowding the platform. If anyone raised weapon, he was prepared to fire and he had given orders that, if anyone actually shot at them, the Panzer IV would use its main armament against them. He didn’t actually expect that order to be carried out, if he and Colonel Rosselsprung were dead, but it gave him a certain amount of comfort.
Responding to his order, the turret of the Panzer IV slowly rotated towards the train.
“Who is in charge here!!! Rosselsprung thundered.
The crowd of soldiers and civilians looked about and it was immediately apparent to Rosselsprung (and to the crowd) that no one was in charge.
Rosselsprung fired another burst into the air, hoping to capitalize on the mobs’ momentary confusion. “Where are the military police and the officers?” All officers are now ordered to step forward!!!!”
Sheepishly, a couple of Leutnants, a Luftwaffe Major and a pair of Heer Captains pushed their way through the crowds.
“Join me by the panzer, Gentlemen!” Rosselsprung ordered in a less than friendly voice.
The officers, shamed into discipline, waded through the crowd and formed a small circle around the panzer.
“Who’s in charge of the military police?”
The “chain dogs” were few, but easily recognized by their bright gorgets. Once he called them out, it was impossible for them to hide in the anonymity of the crowd. They too appeared at the boundary of the mob. Rosselsprung selected the first Feldwebel his eyes fell upon--a big, strapping fellow—and vented his wrath.
“You are supposed to maintain order! Is that not your job? You’re a disgrace to your uniform and position! What is your name? Someone take down his name!”
The Feldwebel hung his head and muttered his name and rank.
Rosselsprung counted on the natural desire of Germans, especially Prussians and soldiers, for discipline, for a commanding voice. He wasn’t afraid and was prepared to play his hand until the end, even if it meant shooting a few folks.
Gruber was all for an inspiring performance and even more for restoring order, but thought the risks were great indeed.
“I want every soldier off that train—everyone who resists is to be shot!” Rosselsprung yelled at the “chain dogs”. “You are all German soldiers, not some lower breed of savages! Defend your Fatherland! I want this train cleared of soldiers immediately and formed into units so that we can defend our country!”
Rosselsprung knew how to strike the right notes. The Panzer’s turret moved slightly again and its gun lowered, aiming at the passenger cars. The “chain dogs” pushed into each car, ejecting the soldiers, whether armed or not.
Meanwhile, Rosselsprung ordered the officers to form march units with anyone in uniform and report to the town square. He expected at least half of them to melt way, but he was damned certain that none of them would be on this train.
“I’ll hang every coward that refuses to face the enemy!” Rosselsprung announced as the soldiers were gathered up in dribs and drabs.
In this, he was deadly serious and, that very day, the results of his public proclamation would be seen on lamp-posts throughout the town as he began his unflinching efforts to restore order in Bad Frostberg and organize a coherent defense.
Last edited by Commissar D, the Evil on Sat Oct 21, 2006 2:04 am, edited 1 time in total.
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
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Jan-Hendrik
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