This place had been chosen for a number of reasons; the river, the terrain, the open killing ground. The positioning of the guns had been decided days beforehand, but still, to the Legion Officer, the distance seemed too great.
“Are you sure you can kill then from here, Capitan Bäcker?”
“Ja, these are no ordinary guns, Colonel.”
And they weren’t, certainly not to look at, if nothing else.
Despite their low profile, the four weapons were still larger than any anti-tank gun St.Clair had ever seen, and he quietly thanked his maker that he had not chosen tanks as an Army career.
“Standby, Capitan.”
“All guns, standby,” the anti-tank officer spoke softly into the mouthpiece, even though the nearest enemy was nearly two kilometres away.
“You think, when the rear one is level with that tree, Capitan Bäcker? This is your business, after all.”
The former SS Hauptsturmfuhrer grunted in response, waiting calmly, assessing ranges and angles, like the veteran he was. Bäcker was an anti-tank specialist; a brilliant training officer from the Beneschau SS-Panzer-Jäger Schule, a man who had earned his spurs on the Russian steppes in charge of a 50mm Pak 38 outside of Moscow.
For this battle, he had a very different weapon at his disposal.
There were four of the monsters, two either side of Route 1083, defending the approaches to Selestat.
St.Clair almost forgot himself, the rearmost IS-II slipping past the marker tree.
“Tirez!”
The experienced Foreign Legion officer wasn’t sure what he had expected, but he was sure he didn’t expect the huge explosion that followed, as the adjacent anti-tank gun sent its heavy shell down range.
Representing the last of Germany’s anti-tank weapon development, the 128mm PAK K44 was a beast. Huge and unmaneuverable though it was, the punch it possessed ruled the battlefield, and it could reach out to nearly three kilometres, killing with relative impunity.
Three of the four shells struck home, each of the heavy IS-II’s succumbing to the irresistible force of the PAK’s huge shell.
A low moan escaped Blagoslavov, slightly muffled by his bandaging.
All eyes had swivelled at the sound of explosions, the heavy crack of a supremely dangerous weapon arriving sometime after the tanks had been struck and killed.
Major Svir was dead, his IS-II sat turretless, already wreathed in flames. The turret had struck the building behind, demolishing it, bringing down a cascade of brick and wood to engulf the hot metal and its softer human contents.
Another IS-II sat smoking gently, its surviving crew staggering around behind it, badly concussed, and shocked by the heavy strike.
A third heavy tank showed no outward sign of damage, but its loss was betrayed by the bloodied figure emerging from the turret, his one good arm working in unison with the stump of the other, desperate to escape the horrors of the interior.
The remaining tanks were moving at top speed, their commanders desperately trying to find some cover; any place to hide from the lethal killers.
Two failed spectacularly.
The first exploded in a fireball, a shell taking it through the side just below the turret ring.
The second did not burn, neither did it explode, but it was no less spectacular watching a tank of some forty-five tons simply come apart at the seams, as two 128mm shells struck simultaneously.
Climbing onto his command tank, Blagoslavov tried to broadcast to his unit commanders, the tightness of the bandaging preventing the attempt.
He ripped away at the linen, exposing his wounds to the air again, desperate to call in orders to stop the destruction of his command.
The second circuit was alive with requests for information, requests that became more strident with each extra Legion volley.
His voice failed him, his split tongue swollen in his mouth, the bruising to his face and mouth preventing the clarity he so needed.
One of 1st Battalion’s IS-II’s had made it to safety.
Just one.
Of the rest, all fourteen were destroyed, and not one shot had been fired at their killers, wherever they were.
Lacking orders, 2nd and 3rd Battalions moved up to assist their comrades, and immediately, the lighter T-34’s of 2nd Battalion started to be smashed apart.
Pointing, and making urgent sounds, Blagoslavov managed to make the gunner understand that he needed the tank to move over to the 2nd’s position.
The IS-II moved off, the driver choosing the route that placed a row of buildings between him and whatever they were out there.
The command tank halted behind a pretty bungalow, totally concealed and safe, the agitated Blagoslavov immediately dismounting and running to the 2nd Battalion commander’s tank.
Captain Bäcker chuckled to himself.
“Watch this, Colonel. A party trick.”
Turning to the nearest gun, he shouted at the commander.
“Wagner, heavy charge.”
Moving to the gun layer’s position, Bäcker slapped the Corporal on the shoulder and replaced him, leaning out from behind the gun shield to quickly check his bearings.
The gun was cleared ready, and Bäcker sighted the weapon on the quaint bungalow.
Careful to remove his face from the sight mount, he fired the weapon, leaning out once more to watch his handiwork.
The building stood, apparently undamaged.
Beyond it, the 128mm shell had slammed into Blagoslavov’s tank.
The Soviet tank Colonel turned, watching the flames engulf his vehicle, the combination of shell and fire leaving him the only survivor.
Observed from the Pak position, the column of smoke indicated Bäcker’s success.
Relinquishing the seat to the gun layer, the Panzer-Jäger commander resumed his previous position, surveying his handiwork more closely with his Zeiss binoculars.
“Impressive, Capitan Bäcker, very impressive.”
The officer nodded thoughtfully.
“And now we must relocate, Sir. I don’t think they’ve seen us yet, but I want to move anyway.”
Turning back to the anti-tank crew, he yelled his order.
“Achtung! Relocate to position Bruno immediately.”
The order was relayed to the other three guns, and the line fell silent as they prepared to move off. The accompanying mortar section put down their smoke, as arranged.
The dismounted infantry of the 424th moved quickly forward, believing they were charging whatever it was that had destroyed the tank battalion.
The waiting legionnaires of ‘Alma’ let them come on, waiting silently in their prepared positions, luring their enemy into the killing ground on the banks of the Aubach.
The low cracks started, the Soviet infantry setting off mines as they ran. Men went down, holding shattered legs and feet, the small mines doing no more than maiming, but doing so in numbers.
Then the defensive line opened fire, machine-guns and rifles filling the air with buzzing metal, angry wasps with a deadly sting.
Still they came on, growing smaller in number every second, until the order was given and they dropped to the ground, hugging Mother Earth for all they were worth.