97. The Tigers of Kiev
501. S.Pz.Abt.
Outside of Belaya Tserkva, Liberated Ukraine
11 May 1944
Johann Volkmann threw his head back and howled, a sound lost in the diesel roar behind him. This was like the invasion of Poland all over again - right down to the stupid headlong attacks and the backhand counterattack. No one could accuse Stalin of being overly competent, and the generals who had survived the purge were even less so, unable to act without a paralyzing fear of their leader. In comparison, the Germans... especially Steiner's men, up near Minsk, from what he had heard... were like modern-day Vikings, operating in small bands with minimal supervision so long as they made no requests of headquarters. So far, it was a strategy that had paid off.
The attack had gone well enough for the Soviets at first. They had penetrated almost to Velikiye Hai, outside Tarnopol, in the first hours. It proved illusory for the Red Army, however: Manstein had anticipated such an attack, and had not stationed any of the critical armored units near the border. When the tankers were recalled to their units and rushed to the field, they had not even bothered to strike at the spearheads, choosing instead to strike at their shanks. The metaphor, unlike the supporting elements behind the initial offensives, held: supported by the Luftwaffe fixing the lead elements in place, the Reichsheer had first dislocated, then encircled, and finally overwhelmed the lead Soviet units. The others had retreated in confusion, and Manstein had given explicit orders to his division commanders: "For God's sake, don't let them sleep until you reach the Dnieper!"
The new Henschel heavies - unimaginatively called the Tiger II - was a good-enough machine, if you were lucky enough to avoid the muddy tar-pit that Russia could become in the wrong season. The Reds had launched their own attack at the end of the spring muddy season, so that was at least not as great a concern as it could have been. He shuddered to think what this ground would have been like in the spring or fall. His tankers, especially Woll, could outrange and outshoot the Russian tanks, except for the handful of T-34s they had encountered, and the T-34 was only a danger to the side or rear of the German armor. Given how accurate the average Soviet gunner was, that was hardly a threat.
What was a threat, at least to Manstein's plan, was Bock's last-minute revision. The Marshal had chosen to strip 6. Armee from Manstein's "sleeve brush" and launch an offensive diagonally across the Soviet front, from Lwow toward Kiev, under his direct control. It threatened to throw the entire left of Manstein's front into confusion, but the troops which Bock had taken were almost universally straight-leg infantry, and the armored force would conveniently outrun them... they hoped. The rationale behind Bock's move was a bit of a mystery; it seemed to be largely glory-hounding, distinctly unlike Bock, whose reputation had already been made no matter what.
Movement in the wheat fields distracted Johann from this reverie. One of the improvements in this new generation of armor was headset radios connecting all of the fighting stations in the tank, and he yelled into his mouthpiece, "Ludecke, pivot right, something moving in the grass. All units, be prepared for..."
He received no opportunity to finish the sentence. The Soviets' secret weapon, of all things old-fashioned horse cavalry, sprung up from a break in the grass, the horses seemingly unfolding from the ground. Over the din of the engines, Johann heard that uncanny yell from a hundred or so throats -
Urrrrrrahhh! The German armor did not slow, or even particulary aim the eighty-eights; against this opposition it would have been a waste of ammunition. This was rather a job for coaxial and bow machine guns. The MG34s began firing the moment the horses came up, and Johann's hands tightened on the rim of the cupola in satisfaction as the machine guns did their deadly work.
That was until he heard the first bullet whir by, then several more spang off the mantlet. One of those spent rounds thudded dully into his tanker's coveralls, and he ducked down, using the scope instead. No one on Earth should rightfully be able to be that accurate firing a rifle one-handed from the gallop, no wonder the Cossacks had the reputation they did! Looking through the periscope was not the same as seeing the battlefield directly, but he had a fairly good idea what was going on out there. Confused chatter began over the radio -
Coming between us, One-One-Three, holding fire - and he realized that the Russian cavalrymen were in among his tanks. That was not so significant; the horses closed the gap quickly, but horsemen alone could do little to armor.
"All units, button up," he snapped, dogging down the hatch. He turned the scope and saw Wittmann in among the cavalry, his exhaust belching as the tank lurched from cruise to high gear. Two of the cavalrymen were too close to swerve away... poor bastards. He watched Wittmann's tank run them down, the suspension barely giving a hiccup as two horses and two men were ground into the wheatfield beneath the treads.
Moments later, a shockwave vibrated the turret and he spun the periscope, dizzying momentarily as the turret counter-rotated to sight on the same point. One of the horsemen, perhaps more daring than sensible, had ridden close enough to the number-four vehicle in 2. Kompanie, 3. Zug, and had hurled a satchel charge into the turret ring, where it had wedged beneath the turret counterweight. Johann's heart leapt into his throat. 2. and 3. Kompanie still had the old Porsche Tigers, their refits had not yet come down. When it went off, the turret lifted upwards and most of the force was driven down into the engine compartment. The tank came to a shuddering halt, smoke pouring from its engine.
The petrol-driven Porsche immediately ignited with a
whump, and the five-man crew poured out, one man on fire and all of them doubled over in a vain effort to avoid Russian rifle fire. "All units halt, lager on that tank, and for God's sake keep the horses off them!" he yelled into the radio, followed by a chorus of lieutenants and captains giving their affirmatives. None of them wanted to be the poor bastards in 2-3-4. The acknowledgements and the orders did little to save them. While the Tigers could pour leaden death into man and horse, the horsemen could do the same to a dismounted tank crew. Johann watched in horror as the burning man fell, then two more went down, then the fourth just as he reached the next-closest tank, 2-3-3. One man reached 2-3-3, vaulting to its hot engine deck and cowering against the turret, yelling futilely against the engines' roar. He suddenly stiffened, clutching and straightening his right leg before the Soviet cavalry, satisfied at the exchange - half a company for one German tank! - whirled and galloped away to the southwest. They were headed into the German lines, but frankly, Johann held little hope of their death or capture. The damned Red horse just seemed to appear and disappear at will.
That night, they halted in lager, a messenger appearing from corps headquarters on a BMW motorcycle that Johann knew quite well. His old was with the support trucks, somewhere to the rear. Hopefully safe from the cavalry and the partisans. "Bock took Kiev," the messenger announced, ruffling his hair to get some of the road dust out. Johann started, despite the exhaustion of riding in a Tiger more-or-less standing upright the entire day. "How the...?" he asked, too startled to complete the sentence.
The messenger shrugged, slipping out of his leather coat as well and sighing in relief. "Hell if we know. All we know is that he transmitted about eighteen-hundred Berlin, little before when I left Corps. 'Kiev German, am advancing Moscow,' he said." Johann snorted. That certainly sounded like the laconic Marshal.
"Well good," Johann finally said on reflection, raising a bottle he had taken off a Russian officer, "To a quick end," he toasted, and the rider grunted in acknowledgement, raising a flask and swigging from it. "A quick end."