“What the hell are you doing here? Advance, coward. Good men are dying because you skulk behind a tree.”
“My foot; it’s wounded. I can’t walk.”
“What wound?” Her voice was scornful. Nevertheless, her fingers felt his ankle, none too gently. “Oh, I see. A dislocation. Well, I can fix that.”
The aid woman grabbed his ankle. Shulgin expecting her to bandage or splint it. Instead, she just wrenched hard and the joint snapped back into place. Shulgin screamed, then let fly with a stream of curses. He’d never guessed he knew such language, let alone use it. The aid woman shook her head and crawled away to try and find other wounded to treat.
He’d scurried forward. His ankle still felt like fire but at least the shooting pain and weakness had gone. The Russian troops were getting artillery support now that surprise had gone. The shells howling over their heads to the German positions beyond. By the time Shulgin had rejoined his company, they had been joined by several 57mm antitank guns Somehow the crews had manhandled the heavy weapons through the trees and into position. His company commander waved him over. Their company had lost so many men they had been assigned to protect the guns rather than hold a section of the line. The good news was that the gunners had brought some extra Degtyarev light machine-guns with them. That would make up for the casualties they had taken.
“Bratya! The fascists will be counter-attacking soon so we can all make sure my watch is set right!” There was a burst of laughter from the troops. Every veteran knew that the fascists took exactly 30 minutes to come to their senses and organize a counter-attack; not a second more or less. “Don’t forget what we are here for! We cannot hold without these guns. We must stop the fascist beasts from getting close to the guns. If we protect the artillerists, they will protect us from the tanks and half-tracks. Machine-gunners, cut the infantry off the tanks. The tanks will try and destroy our machine guns first. If we can get rid of the infantry, the artillerists will see to the tanks. If every man does his duty, we will hold!”
A good speech, thought Shulgin, short and to the point, stirring and just long enough to keep the men’s minds off the fact that fascist tanks were coming. Fascist propaganda always showed them pouring masses of tanks in every assault but most of the time they would have a couple of tanks if that. They would sit at a safe distance and shell the Russian infantry positions. They would try to spot the Russian guns and suppress them but they would not close, not unless they were desperate to break through. Of course the answer to that was to position the guns on a reverse slope so that the tanks had to close to short range. Then, there would be a lethal, bloody duel. The tanks would fire. The half-tracks with them would close with their panzer-grenadiers. The 57s would make short work of them. Then the machine gunners could cut down the fascists as they abandoned their vehicles.
Shulgin took his place in the trench, his rifle ready and waiting. Another change from the old days. Back in ‘42 he’d been taught to dig one- or two-man foxholes, laid out in platoon formations. The problem was that they collapsed under fire. Worse, the men in them were on their own. They were completely isolated unable to hear or see the orders. That had made leadership and command almost impossible. Every man believed the others were already dead or retreating, that he was the only person left alive. Then it seemed that enemies were all shooting just at him. So now the rule was to dig trenches, full depth if there was time, half depth if there was not. But every man could see his comrades and they could see him. A man’s spirit might fail if he was on his own, but to show cowardice when one’s comrades were watching? Impossible!
“Here they come!” Tovarish Major called out. Sure enough, it had been 30 minutes to the second. It was obvious from the strong rumble of explosions that the attack on the frontline had started. The sounds of explosions drew closer, and was joined by a massive roar of engines. That meant the enemy tanks were coming. Shulgin saw the forward security pickets appearing at the ridge and running towards the anti-tank guns. They ran to the company commander, explained something to him and the order went out. “Prepare for the tank attack!” There were no drugs in the 161st. The troops were in their half-trenches. The artillerists tried to camouflage their guns with branches, mud anything they could find.
At that moment some people in Russian khaki appeared on the ridge. They ran towards the guns as fast as their legs would carry them. To Shulgin that meant just one thing. The front line was completely broken and an avalanche of tanks and Panzergrenadiers was about to descend on them. The artillerists were waiting by their guns, the barrels were trained along the ridge, ready for the first vehicles to cross. They didn’t have to wait long. Fascist tanks, at least ten of them, crossed the ridgeline and rolled forward at high speed. They fired their machine-guns at the fleeing infantry. Shulgin identified them. 4th series tanks; they looked archaic compared with sleek Panthers and hulking Tigers but they were deadly enough. They were running down the hillside, firing their main guns non-stop. Shulgin sneered at that, it was a trick that worked against inexperienced drugs but veterans know it was almost impossible to fire accurately on the move.
Shulgin had to remind himself of that. He wanted to flee, his legs kept trying to run but he forced himself to remain still. Then two loud explosions as the fascist tanks hit some mines. An engineer platoon had hastily laid them while the infantry were digging in. Two tanks, out of ten! Shulgin cheered, the more so because one of the tanks was burning while the other had spun on its wrecked roadwheels. The rest lumbered on, bearing down on the infantry. One came up on a trench. It spun around on its tracks, driving along the length of the ditch. When it came out the other end, Shulgin could see its wheels and tracks were bright red. A 57mm cracked and the shot hit the tank square in the side. It started to burn, its crew struggled to get out but they were shot down before they had a chance.
More shots from the 57s; return fire from the 75s in the tanks. Shulgin and the infantry stayed down. They had to let the tanks pass through their positions and stop the Panzergrenadiers before they could get to the artillerists. There was one small problem with that plan. It was such a minor problem he was sure it had escaped those of higher rank who were paid to think on such things. The problem was that the tank was made of steel, and infantrymen were not. It wasn’t impossible to knock out the tanks with grenades and satchel charges, but it was even harder escape afterwards. Even if they disabled a tank, that didn’t end the matter. The crew might not abandon the immobilized tank, they might stay and continue to fight. That was why the order had come down. “You should always burn the tank.”
The remaining tanks were almost on them. The 57s fired to the end, Shulgin could see one gun, its crew slumped around it. The artillerists had fought their gun to the muzzle, until they’d been cut down by a shell from a tank. One of the fascist tanks was very close. For a moment, Shulgin thought he was dreaming because he saw two members of the dead crew come to life. Their gun had been loaded and they’d been waiting their chance. It wasn’t only fascist tankers who could stay at their post and continue to fight. The armor-piercing shot from the 57mm smacked into the side of the tank, just under the turret. There was a split second of silence then the tank erupted in an explosion. Smoke and flame poured out of every hatch, every port in the armor. Panzer grenadiers were all over one gun crew, the artillerists were fighting back with pistols, clubs, anything that came to hand. They fought their gun to the muzzle and beyond so that the fascists could not claim they’d captured a Russian gun while a member of its crew still lived.