The surviving Russians ran breathlessly, eyes wide with fear, trying to reach Syrtsevo on the Pena River, the last stronghold before Oboyan.
General Krivoshen hid in a gully, trying to assimilate what he could from a survivor of the 75th Motorized Battalion. He learned all were dead or taken prisoner and were already being hustled back to the holding pens in the rear of the German lines.
Krishoven leaped from the gully and climbed on top of an armored car in time to see his own staff car disappear from the blast. Kicking the driver in the back of the head, he screamed for him to get out of the way and take the machine down a ravine, heading away from the killer tanks. He would organize a counterattack from Srytsevo.
Langer's tank rumbled through the side of a peasant's hut, then stopped dead in its tracks inside the shack. Leaning down, Langer cursed Gus. "What the fuck are you doing, you moron? Get us out of here!"
Gus grinned. "Don't get your ass in an uproar, Sarge." Showing one gold tooth, he swung open his escape hatch and jumped out, taking two giant steps to a table surprisingly still standing in the wreckage. Grabbing an item from it, he leaped back through the hatch and into his seat. Battening the steel cover down over him, he gunned the motor and the forty-five tons of steel broke through the other side of the shack and back into the open. Teacher kicked Gus on the shoulder. "What the hell was that all about, you maniac?"
Reaching in his coat, Gus took out a bottle of vodka. "It might have gotten broken. . . ."
Teacher gave him a solid boot in the back. "You mean you stopped the whole fucking war for a bottle of vodka?"
Wounded, Gus said in hurt tones, "Well, if that's the way you feel about it, you don't have to drink any."
Teacher shook his head wonderingly and yelled up to Langer. "He stopped for a bottle of vodka."
Langer laughed. "What else? That dumb shit thinks that's the reason Hitler started this war—just for the vodka. He says it doesn't make sense to come to Russia for any other reason, so that's got to be it. Maybe he knows something we don't."
The smell of diesel fumes and cordite left a sour taste in the mouth. SPAAAAANG. A Russian round bounced off the glacis shield in front and bounced off to explode elsewhere.
"Where is he?" Langer swung the turret using the periscope.
"Got him. Over by that field of trees. The bastard's dug in; just the turret showing. Looks like a KV-I. Can you take him, Teacher?"
The scholar sighted and corrected his azimuth readings a little.
"Fire." The shell burst directly in front of the Russian tank. Teacher spat on the floor. Before Langer could say anything, he resighted, saying, "Don't get in a sweat. After all, I'm not used to this thing yet. Give me a little time."
The next round took the KV-I right at the junction of the hull and turret, exploding the tank from the inside and turning the gunner and loader into shriveled cinders.
A sense of urgency and panic drove them on. One by one, more of the group were knocked out by the Soviet Pakfronts, copied and improved from the German model. The use of up to ten antitank guns under one commander could bring tremendous firepower to bear on a single tank. The first indication you were facing one was usually when your neighbor blew up. That, and the technical problems with the new Panthers, gave Langer a lonesome feeling, as the crackle in his radio informed him he was alone with no infantry support. Upon realization of this, Gus locked the right tread and cut ass back to the rear about four miles, where he pulled into a ravine shared by a couple of Wespe self-propelled guns. The sight of their 105s gave them a feeling of security. Infantry from the GD were digging in for the night.
Had it been that long? They had made six miles. A flight of Shtormoviks droned overhead, the Mikulin engines humming as the pilot and rear gunner looked for targets on the ground.
Brush and branches were quickly thrown on top of the Panther to conceal her from the eyes above. Soon darkness would cover them. Haumpmann Heidemann called asking for his position. The remainder of the unit was digging in for the night with a bunch of Tiger Is of the 6th Company, 1st SS Panzer regiment commanded by Rudolf von Ribbentrop, son of the Reich's famed foreign minister. The crackle of Maxims on the Soviet side let them know Ivan was still there. Angling their tank into position where only the turret showed above the edge of the gully, they waited for the night. Ivan would come. He couldn't afford not to. The night was the time when their numbers gave them the greatest advantage.
The Guards regiment they had mauled would even now be creeping out, grouping together in small knots of men, listening to the haranguing of the Komissars whipping them into a fighting fervor to destroy the Fascist beasts who dared step on the soil of the mother Russia by the dozens and then the hundreds. These small pockets emerged, then began to join together, forming larger ones; thousands of Russians had been bypassed in the tank fight and now they would have to face them in the dark.
Langer left Teacher in the turret with the binoculars and sent Gus off to scrounge some chow from the grenadiers. They had plenty on board, but if there was food to be had, they would save theirs. Young Ertl kept close to Langer, his lips still trembling from controlled fear, his face pale. Grunting, Carl lit a butt and stuck it between the boy's lips.
"Take a drag. It will help. You did good today. Now find a place close to Gus when he gets back and stay with him. That ugly old bear may not be fit for the drawing rooms of Europe, but out here, he has a knack for surviving. Maybe some of it will rub off on you."
Langer found the officer in charge of the grenadiers and lunched down beside him. The major was going over his charts, marking their position and noting where the other units of the assault force were digging in for the night. Darkness was closing in and in the distance, long columns of smoke from burning tanks showed the Luftwaffe was still at work. From the north came the long distant rumble of artillery barrages being laid.
Turning to Langer, the major—his face dirty and uniform less than picture-book perfect—squinted at him through grime-laden lids.
"You the one with the Mark V?"
Carl nodded.
"Good. We will need you before this night is done. The bastards knew we were going to hit them today. They knew when and where. I'm Kruger, major by the grace of our Führer in this glorious social experiment. Fuck it. Where's your beast at?"
Langer pointed down the ravine to the Panther.
"Good enough. Leave it there. I'll send over a squad to give you cover for the night. After it gets dark, pull it back a little from the edge of the gully and face it down the ravine so you can use your hull MG. The turret gun will still be able to fire over the lip of the gully."
Carl nodded agreement. The man knew his business.
Lighting up a smoke for himself, he drew it deep into his lungs, holding a moment and then exhaling through his nostrils.
"Where are we, Major? I can just get radio contact with my company leader but we've been weaving in and out of those damned antitank ditches for hours."
Pointing a dirty fingernail, Kruger indicated a point on the map. "Here. Just north of Butovo." He looked at the shoulder tabs of the Panzer man. "You're with the 26th Pz, right?" Then, not waiting for an answer, "They're on the right flank about four kilometers behind and we are, my good friend and ally, the leading element of this action."