Like the Commissar's JS-2's, Phylo's Panthers were forced to laager during this initial battle. The reason was simple--Gruber hadn't been able as yet to organize enough petrol for their nearly empty tanks.
The situation for Panzer units in Prussia was pretty much universal--not enough gasoline to go around. The only less affected German Armored Units were the scouting forces, whose armored cars generally used diesel fuel and naturally were designed with a longer range than the normal Panzer or Panzerjager. But even these units weren't exactly extravagantly supplied.
In the meantime, Gruber's men were draining every non-combative vehicles' tanks, ferreting out every gallon of black-market fuel and pumping dry the dregs of any remaining gas station to supply fuel to the few precious Panzers left to the Festung.
So....My Tank Corps in Prussia...
Moderator: Commissar D, the Evil
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Commissar D, the Evil
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Commissar D, the Evil
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Davidov, the EviL Commissar watched the battle rage in front of him with his arms folded around his chest. Behind him, his second echelon assembled for the task at hand. But the Commissar pinned his hopes on the success of his first real thrust into Bad Frostberg and intended to send these men and tanks around the "fortress" and to the sea beyond it.
From his hill in the South, Commissar D, the EviL looked upon the devastation with a serenity that unsettled even his long-time friend and subordinate, Colonel Sonafovich. But, what the Commissar knew that others didn't, was that this day, the 20th of the month, was his birthday and he frankly felt invincible on this day.
W.F., the sniper, fired a lone shot from Bad Frostberg at the exposed Commissar, but the range was much too long, as the German lines had been compressed by the Soviet assault.
Despite W.F.'s well-proven talent, his bullet threw up a gout of snow and ice a good twenty meters in front of the gloating Commissar.
That day, he was indeed invincible.....
From his hill in the South, Commissar D, the EviL looked upon the devastation with a serenity that unsettled even his long-time friend and subordinate, Colonel Sonafovich. But, what the Commissar knew that others didn't, was that this day, the 20th of the month, was his birthday and he frankly felt invincible on this day.
W.F., the sniper, fired a lone shot from Bad Frostberg at the exposed Commissar, but the range was much too long, as the German lines had been compressed by the Soviet assault.
Despite W.F.'s well-proven talent, his bullet threw up a gout of snow and ice a good twenty meters in front of the gloating Commissar.
That day, he was indeed invincible.....
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 artillery barrage lifted only as soon as the Soviet guns ran out of shells, but soldiers on the ground of both sides relaxed as it ceased.
In this particular war and especially in 1945, it didn’t matter much to either side when the big guns stopped firing. An innocent might think that the losers welcomed the end the bombardment more than the winners. But the truth of it was that the Russians knew that the cessation of their own artillery also meant the end of "short rounds" fired by worn out guns.
Either way, it was a welcomed end of an unseen and long-range, anonymous infantry-killer.
By no means did it mean that the opposing infantry couldn't kill each other off with abandonment. It was simply a guarantee that they could do so without the nuisance of some rear echelon, long-range murder.
For now, Bad Frostberg's fate hung upon the efficiency of short-range and individual death.
In this particular war and especially in 1945, it didn’t matter much to either side when the big guns stopped firing. An innocent might think that the losers welcomed the end the bombardment more than the winners. But the truth of it was that the Russians knew that the cessation of their own artillery also meant the end of "short rounds" fired by worn out guns.
Either way, it was a welcomed end of an unseen and long-range, anonymous infantry-killer.
By no means did it mean that the opposing infantry couldn't kill each other off with abandonment. It was simply a guarantee that they could do so without the nuisance of some rear echelon, long-range murder.
For now, Bad Frostberg's fate hung upon the efficiency of short-range and individual death.
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, AAA, "cliff-hangers" are my stock and trade. Problem is that I can't stuff enough of them into any single episode without appearing (rightly) as being foolish.Well, DCC certainly has this other capitalist dogmatic device, the "cliff-hanger" down cold.
Very Best,
David
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
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Luftman129
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Commissar D, the Evil
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Moshe, Hanson's "pet" Jew shuffled into the amphitheater of screaming men, his hat in his hand just as he was trained to approach his masters in the Concentration Camps.
The Red Army soldiers, who had been loudly bickering over Hanson's fate, despite Comrade Rebsky's advice, fell silent at the slow entrance into the scene by an obvious victim of the Nazi war criminals.
In his striped suit, Moshe showed his deference, as he was trained to do so, by bowing towards the Reds, cap in hand. Then he shuffled towards Hanson, with invisible but remembered shackles limiting his pace.
Without saying a word, Moshe grasped the hilt of the bayonet pinning Hanson to the beam. The sharpened edge of it had pierced Hanson's forearm, slightly below the wrist and Moshe worked the handle of it back and forth to withdraw the blade.
Hanson nearly fainted as Moshe made his effort to free him.
In his agony, Hanson could only grit his teeth and exchange one glance into his "Pet Jew's" inexpressive eyes.
Sergei's blade eventually came out of the wood and Hanson sunk to the ground in pain.
"Kill the Nazi!, Kill the Nazi!" the Russian troops chanted in unison.
Moshe raised the bayonet. Hanson was helpless at the moment. Only God himself could know what really formed in the mind of the Jew who had survived years in the camps and now confronted a helpless S.S. trooper, the only S.S. man who had personally helped and cared for him.
The well-remembered cries of his persecuted and finally, exterminated people--his own family included--must have blared loudly in Moshe's ears. The feel and weight of the bloody Russian bayonet in his hands must have intoxicated him. The physical power of the Red Army soldiers' exhortations to kill the S.S. man at his feet must have intimidated him.
Moshe, a mere watchmaker in the best of times, looked deeply into Hanson's eyes, for one last moment of recognition, as he raised the bayonet in both hands above his head.
The Red Army soldiers, who had been loudly bickering over Hanson's fate, despite Comrade Rebsky's advice, fell silent at the slow entrance into the scene by an obvious victim of the Nazi war criminals.
In his striped suit, Moshe showed his deference, as he was trained to do so, by bowing towards the Reds, cap in hand. Then he shuffled towards Hanson, with invisible but remembered shackles limiting his pace.
Without saying a word, Moshe grasped the hilt of the bayonet pinning Hanson to the beam. The sharpened edge of it had pierced Hanson's forearm, slightly below the wrist and Moshe worked the handle of it back and forth to withdraw the blade.
Hanson nearly fainted as Moshe made his effort to free him.
In his agony, Hanson could only grit his teeth and exchange one glance into his "Pet Jew's" inexpressive eyes.
Sergei's blade eventually came out of the wood and Hanson sunk to the ground in pain.
"Kill the Nazi!, Kill the Nazi!" the Russian troops chanted in unison.
Moshe raised the bayonet. Hanson was helpless at the moment. Only God himself could know what really formed in the mind of the Jew who had survived years in the camps and now confronted a helpless S.S. trooper, the only S.S. man who had personally helped and cared for him.
The well-remembered cries of his persecuted and finally, exterminated people--his own family included--must have blared loudly in Moshe's ears. The feel and weight of the bloody Russian bayonet in his hands must have intoxicated him. The physical power of the Red Army soldiers' exhortations to kill the S.S. man at his feet must have intimidated him.
Moshe, a mere watchmaker in the best of times, looked deeply into Hanson's eyes, for one last moment of recognition, as he raised the bayonet in both hands above his head.
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
![:[]](./images/smilies/icon_study.gif "Study"){kind=icon}
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Commissar D, the Evil
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To the cheers of the Russian troops, Moshe drove the bayonet with both hands into Hanson’s belly. But, as their eyes locked, only the tip of the cold unforgiving steel blade pierced Hanson’s tunic.
Always a quick study, Max screamed in imaginary pain at an imaginary wound.
What Moshe felt in this moment was indescribable, as was the effort it took to not push the blade home.
But, the eyes of one man in a slaughterhouse had finally met on equal, if not superior grounds, the eyes of another man imprisoned in the same Hell.
At that moment of mutual epiphany, Feldwebel Michalik’s flammpanzer stuck it’s sheet metal snout into the arena and hosed it down with a long burst of flame.
Hanson pulled Moshe by the collar away from the fire, which enveloped the Red infantry surrounding them as matches might be absorbed into a bonfire.
Only Comrade Rebsky kept his head as others around him burst into flames. Unfortunately, his lone, captured panzerfaust round passed a full meter above the Flamm-Hetzer and he was forced to hide under the rubble with the other lucky ones who survived.
The firing of a panzerfaust at his vehicle provoked Feldwebel Michalik to expend another burst of flaming gasoline. Indeed, he wouldn’t be satisfied until this nest of Bolsheviks was truly burnt out.
The difference between a high-explosive shell and a stream of jellied gasoline is one of suffering. Men are killed outright by a a shell-burst—but a flame-thrower roasted its victims,relatively slowly, alive.
The mercy shown by Moshe was quite equally weighted by Hanson’s pulling the both of them out of the maw of the Flamm-Panzer. Without a single word passing between them, their fates in the fight for Bad Fosstberg were forever intertwined by the events of that day.
Even despite Hanson’s efforts, the inferno caught Moshe’s prison uniform afire. To his best ability, Max beat the flames out, using his tunic top, including his precious Iron Cross, to tame the fire. Both men held themselves up by leaning against each other as they made their way into the ruined sstreets of Bad Frostberg.
Always a quick study, Max screamed in imaginary pain at an imaginary wound.
What Moshe felt in this moment was indescribable, as was the effort it took to not push the blade home.
But, the eyes of one man in a slaughterhouse had finally met on equal, if not superior grounds, the eyes of another man imprisoned in the same Hell.
At that moment of mutual epiphany, Feldwebel Michalik’s flammpanzer stuck it’s sheet metal snout into the arena and hosed it down with a long burst of flame.
Hanson pulled Moshe by the collar away from the fire, which enveloped the Red infantry surrounding them as matches might be absorbed into a bonfire.
Only Comrade Rebsky kept his head as others around him burst into flames. Unfortunately, his lone, captured panzerfaust round passed a full meter above the Flamm-Hetzer and he was forced to hide under the rubble with the other lucky ones who survived.
The firing of a panzerfaust at his vehicle provoked Feldwebel Michalik to expend another burst of flaming gasoline. Indeed, he wouldn’t be satisfied until this nest of Bolsheviks was truly burnt out.
The difference between a high-explosive shell and a stream of jellied gasoline is one of suffering. Men are killed outright by a a shell-burst—but a flame-thrower roasted its victims,relatively slowly, alive.
The mercy shown by Moshe was quite equally weighted by Hanson’s pulling the both of them out of the maw of the Flamm-Panzer. Without a single word passing between them, their fates in the fight for Bad Fosstberg were forever intertwined by the events of that day.
Even despite Hanson’s efforts, the inferno caught Moshe’s prison uniform afire. To his best ability, Max beat the flames out, using his tunic top, including his precious Iron Cross, to tame the fire. Both men held themselves up by leaning against each other as they made their way into the ruined sstreets of Bad Frostberg.
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
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Commissar D, the Evil
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Commissar D, the Evil
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Only five of the Latvian S.S. troopers survived the initial Russian assault, but one of them had witnessed Araj’s lone assault on a intact country house. This Latvian waited besides an MG-42 for his countryman to safely emerge from what he then regarded as a strictly personal fight. When that didn’t happen, He spread the word to his remaining Kameraden who assaulted ”Arajs’ house” with all possible emergency.
“Arajs’ house.”
The Latvians tended to personalize each battle they fought in. Somewhere there was a “Karlis trench” or a “Villas tank-graveyard”. That was the legendary stuff that kept them fighting in 1945, when their homeland was irrevocably lost to the Communists.
They found Arajs’ alive, but bleeding to death on its wooden floor with a half-dozen dead Reds around him and no one else alive in the house. This satisfied them as to his courage and two of the Latvian S.S. were detailed to carry him back to a dressing station.
For decades after, even if spoken in whispers during the decades of the Communist occupation of Latvia, "Arajs' House" would be a byword for selfless bravery and courage.
“Arajs’ house.”
The Latvians tended to personalize each battle they fought in. Somewhere there was a “Karlis trench” or a “Villas tank-graveyard”. That was the legendary stuff that kept them fighting in 1945, when their homeland was irrevocably lost to the Communists.
They found Arajs’ alive, but bleeding to death on its wooden floor with a half-dozen dead Reds around him and no one else alive in the house. This satisfied them as to his courage and two of the Latvian S.S. were detailed to carry him back to a dressing station.
For decades after, even if spoken in whispers during the decades of the Communist occupation of Latvia, "Arajs' House" would be a byword for selfless bravery and courage.
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
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august winter
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