Crackling in the earpiece. Some inaudible noise was heard, then came human speech, marching orders from the Captain. Arno said, “Verstanden,” confirmed and broke the contact. Tossing away the cigarette butt, he ordered simply “driver forward” and sat down. The driver put the 251 in gear, the vehicle crawlers grabbed the dry sand and the vehicle lurched forward. It moved in jerks down into the ditch and onto the road, followed by the platoon’s two other vehicles. In their wake came the rest of the 8th Company, as if on parade.
Prep fire, unload, forward on foot, anti-armour in position, flames, low-flying Jabos and dawn over the trees. The armour in single file, spreading out across the plain; grenadiers dismounting in order to clear out a copse, then mounting up on the tanks again.
A fire control plane circled over a stony, sterile region and measured the target. It was a plain with smoke, strange leafless woods, yellow bushes and red grass. You saw dogfights in the sky, burning woods and advancing armour. You saw parachutes in the sky carrying canisters, metal boxes of supplies, dropped by the Western Allies as support to the Russians, who for their part rarely wasted time on such finesses as “dropping of supplies by parachute.” Parachute silk was in short supply in the Soviet Union.
The armoured column headed across the plain, dust swirling in its wake. Arno stood, forage cap askew and radio headphones on the dash of his SPW; he looked out across the plain, the surrounding woods and a creek. “Only a minor barrier,” he thought of the watercourse; as for the forest it had probably been cleared by their infantry.
8th Company went with the flow of movement westward, a Russian armoured battalion constantly at their heels. The sun played over the dry lands and dust whirled as the angular bodies of their dirty brown vehicles rocked across the plain. As air support the Russians had a Sturmovik division flying along in the sky. The planes were painted light blue on the underside and grey-green on the upper side.
Clouds flocked, TNT smoke spread. Arno saw impossible clouds on the horizon, enigmatic formations shaped like fairytale castles. Splintered, shifting formations, one moment resembling a cauliflower, the next a tree. Look again and they form enigmatic cities with towering temples and palaces. And in the palace Arno thought he saw devas and sylphs, fairies and angels, heavenly angels whispering about the I AM-impulse in shining, jewelled gardens.
Arno shook his head; dreaming again, was he…? He frequently used to dream, he had a dreamer’s eye but daydreaming during combat really wasn’t recommended.
Arno asked for a report, looked at a map, pondered and said:
“Everything’s haphazard. Where’s the enemy? Everywhere?”
Russian fighter bombers came in for an attack. The AA pieces of the German vehicles opened up, the air becoming an inferno of burning, exploding enemy planes. More Russian planes arrived, they were met by German interceptors, the Luftwaffe happening to be there in force, just when they were needed. But a couple of bombers got through, whizzing down towards the armoured column and releasing their deadly cargo.
The explosions hit the vital parts of three tanks. Arno’s SPW had dashed for the cover of nearby woodland. As they waited there together with other vehicles, they saw a pall of smoke rising from the stricken armour.
Twilight fell, the land giving a peculiar impression of yellow trees, blue meadows and new planets in the sky. Orders and counter-orders were given, it was ahead, waiting, catering. Then new plans to seize a sudden opportunity, the reserve employed in an attack in depth. They went off, rolling through the night:
“Wolf Pack, Wolf Pack, Red Dog here, tearing up a gap in the front, a gap in time…”
It was a land-bound cruiser armada, crossing white fields and black meadows, surrounded by sparks and smoke. Over the column arched an umbrella, a brilliant Feuerglocke of heavy shells in arcing trajectories, while on the flanks came arrow showers of rockets fired from supporting aircraft.
The rockets aimed for a point on the horizon where space became time, where space and time obliterated each other in an instant.
The Armoured Battalion, Tigers plus Battalion Wolf with Arno’s Company, crossed the plain with waving antennae and columns of smoke rising from the exhaust pipes. They drove into the Feuerglocke with high speed, aiming for a breakthrough at the weakest point – then they would spread out behind the enemy’s broken line and wreak havoc:
- The smell of burnt varnish, blast gases and fumes
- Pancake-flat plains, monotonous landscape
- Green birch groves, green clouds on a golden sky
Bright red lines drawn across the sky, a magnesium green shimmer hovering over the land, earth fountains rising at the points of impact, shrapnel and body parts flying, crushed pulp and steel fragments everywhere, black smoke and an echo crossing the plain, bouncing off in the distance and dying out – and it was answered by the roar of the planes, the song of the Panzer machines, the rattle of automatic fire and the roaring of the Nebelwerfer rocket launchers – a howl out of the abyss like the hellhound Garm in the Edda. Impact flashes, breakthrough, muzzle flames, space becoming time. And all in one and one in all.
Infantry-armour co-operation. The everyday of the Panzer Followers. A fighting retreat, a retrograde defense, Belarus, June 21 through 25 1944. From here to eternity.
The eight-ton SPW rattled heavily along the gravel road, stopped and unloaded its heavy load. Heavy infantry, Panzer Followers, Panzer Grenadiere and in the lead rushed Arno, wielding his heavy StG.
A soldiery sky, leaden grey, black clouds on the horizon. Massive, spontaneous and vital.
Detonations coming closer. Ferocious effervescence.
Ace of Spades, from King of Spades, do you read, you infernal bombing armada… bombing in the blazing light, in the velvety twilight over blue cities…
THE SUN
The sun shone through the clouds, a warm wind sweeping over the land. Perfect summer weather, comfortable heat, nice to take a bath, Arno figured – the squirrel chattering in the forest, a drowsy wolf looking towards the man-noise, the woodpecker chopping and the MG rattling – listening to the radio, scouting the horizon, seeing the clouds piling up….
TORTION BAR
tortion bar
track wheel
track suspension
track support
turret shield
turret MG
crawler
LISTEN
Listen to the radio, hear the wolf howling in the distance – an echo across the front. Strange music circulating in the glades, rising in streams, going through my mind like a dream…
WHEN YOU DIE
When you die, your mind goes to the moon, the dream to the sun and the future to the stars – invoking the moon, seeing armour and blood on the plain, illuminating every nook and cranny of the battlefield with burning magnesium, illumination round – burning green torch in the sky, lighting up the field and dying men like a falling moon.
CLASP
clasp
loop
strap
buttonhole