August 16th, 1942
The small village that had existed since the time of the Tsars was systematically undone in large chunks, thrown up in the air, and scattered like a angry child's playtoy. The waves of Stuka bombs plastered the ramshackle buildings, scattering their human and non-human contents all over the place. In a few minutes, a place that had survived the centuries was torn apart, and along with it any thoughts of resistance.
Many of the surviving miltiamen did all that they could do- they fled. The doomed who were left behind put up a grim, futile resistance. They knew only one thing- to take as many enemy with them as they could amidst the cheerfully colored fields of sunflowers. The damned do die hard and a thousand incidents do make up a battle....
A mortar halftrack took a mortar round that burst just above the crew compartment. The vehicle was unharmed, but contained a pulpy, wettish mass of red offal, which the eminantly practical grendiers quickly removed to get the mortar working again....
A large group of Russians burst from the tall fields of flowers, bearing down on the HQ troop. They were gunned down like nine-pins by the MGs of the security detachment, none getting closer than a hundred yards of their intended victim. Later it was noted that they didn't have a single rifle amongst them, only a few pistols and grenades.....
Grendiers were taken by surprise when a female radio operator lept from a trench and split one of them open with an entrenching tool. Revenge was swift and savage, and even afterward, the grendiers admired the shattered corpse with the beautiful flowing blonde hair......
A young grendier was terribly shaken by the way he had to put down a screaming raving horse pulling a wagon. The shattered, bloody remains of the wagon's driver and his passengers he had gunned down with his machine pistol didn't move him at all, however......
Lying on the outskirts of the ruined village, lay the defenders of a dug-in defensive position, as if fast asleep. A nearby large bomb crater nearby told of the concussion that washed over these poor unfortunates. Ever afterward, the Grendiers referred to the location of the village as "Ivan's Rest"......
The 1st platoon was taking fire from a trenchline at the edge of the village. One of their halftracks burned merrily in the road, dangerously cooking off ammo and creating such a feroucious blaze that the platoon could not continue its assault in that direction. In addition, their respected commander lay astride his halftrack, rolling in agony as he bled to death from a stomach wound. Near him were two comrades who were shot down trying to pull him to safety. In what can be considered a charitable act, his adjutant put him down with a single shot. Taking command, he led the platoon around the flank of the trench, where no mercy was exacted upon the unfortunates they found there....
A thousand incidents make a battle... And a billion incidents make up a war......
Monday, July 2, 2007
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Knock Knock
August 16th, 1942 0900 hours
The clay and straw hut village sat nestled at the bottom of the rolling hills covered in sunflowers, as it had since the time of the Tsars. Clay and straw houses lay astride the dirt road that wandered in from the vastness of the steppe and led to the industrial city a mile distant. A small outpost of civilization set amid the riot of color provided by the vast fields of sunflowers on the edge of the steppe.
The small village was a flurry of activity as the Soviet militiamen scrambled to dig themselves into the brown earth. They were digging in with a purpose, as aircraft had thundered overhead earlier in the morning, presaging the violence from the air that was yet to come.
They didn't have too long to wait. A series of explosions in the distance, followed by the scouts scampering back through the fields of flowers, told of the approaching enemy. As if to punctuate their arrival, the drone of planes came from the West. The dance of death was about to start.
A kilometer away, Hans and his Kamfgruppe were approaching that village at a more cautionary speed than they had been the previous day. Two of the PSW 222 scout cars had struck mines, presents left behind by the precipitously retreating Russians.
"We will commence attack dispositions when we reach the bottom of the last low line of hills outside that village" Hans ordered into his radio. The droning of planes caused him to look up for a moment. "Our flying artillery is here. There is no time to waste. Get to it."
Hans didn't need to hear the muffled acknowledgments over the radio from his unit commanders to know that his orders would be carried out. He knew his men well. Turning to Peitor, he quiped "The die is cast. By tonite we may even get to sleep with a roof over our heads."
"Not if I know the repuation of our flying artillery overhead." Peitor quipped back, even as both sets of eyes followed the sinister dark shapes of the Stukas as they started their dives toward the unseen village behind the rolling hills.
The clay and straw hut village sat nestled at the bottom of the rolling hills covered in sunflowers, as it had since the time of the Tsars. Clay and straw houses lay astride the dirt road that wandered in from the vastness of the steppe and led to the industrial city a mile distant. A small outpost of civilization set amid the riot of color provided by the vast fields of sunflowers on the edge of the steppe.
The small village was a flurry of activity as the Soviet militiamen scrambled to dig themselves into the brown earth. They were digging in with a purpose, as aircraft had thundered overhead earlier in the morning, presaging the violence from the air that was yet to come.
They didn't have too long to wait. A series of explosions in the distance, followed by the scouts scampering back through the fields of flowers, told of the approaching enemy. As if to punctuate their arrival, the drone of planes came from the West. The dance of death was about to start.
A kilometer away, Hans and his Kamfgruppe were approaching that village at a more cautionary speed than they had been the previous day. Two of the PSW 222 scout cars had struck mines, presents left behind by the precipitously retreating Russians.
"We will commence attack dispositions when we reach the bottom of the last low line of hills outside that village" Hans ordered into his radio. The droning of planes caused him to look up for a moment. "Our flying artillery is here. There is no time to waste. Get to it."
Hans didn't need to hear the muffled acknowledgments over the radio from his unit commanders to know that his orders would be carried out. He knew his men well. Turning to Peitor, he quiped "The die is cast. By tonite we may even get to sleep with a roof over our heads."
"Not if I know the repuation of our flying artillery overhead." Peitor quipped back, even as both sets of eyes followed the sinister dark shapes of the Stukas as they started their dives toward the unseen village behind the rolling hills.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
No one is home ?
August 15, 1942 10:00 hours
Filipp was a good soldier- a bit quiet, perhaps, but well-liked by the company. Seeing him lying dead by the side of the road in an endless field of sunflowers after they were all strafed by German planes effected the company in a bad, bad way.
Its not that they were not unused to death and destruction. They had seen the detrius of war long before this- long lines of broken bodies, moaning and screaming unattended on the rail platform they were debarking onto. Rumors, too, that all too common "soldiers news" of massive destruction at the hands of the invaders, were prevalent amongst them all. Neither were they unfamiliar with the harangues of the unit's commisar, whom afterward would leave them and move onto the next truck loaded with canon-fodder as they headed toward the front.
Even the death and destuction of the whole column around them amidst a horrific crashing of bombs and tortured metal, amongst which even now moans and cries of help emanated, was not a deciding factor in their decision.
It was the death of a common soldier, a good luck talisman that made up their minds for them. Before the commander and his handlers could try to regain control of his men, they were slipping away, one by one, into the tall sunflowers, leaving behind only a few living men amidst a larger group of those dying or destined to die.
Filipp was a good soldier- a bit quiet, perhaps, but well-liked by the company. Seeing him lying dead by the side of the road in an endless field of sunflowers after they were all strafed by German planes effected the company in a bad, bad way.
Its not that they were not unused to death and destruction. They had seen the detrius of war long before this- long lines of broken bodies, moaning and screaming unattended on the rail platform they were debarking onto. Rumors, too, that all too common "soldiers news" of massive destruction at the hands of the invaders, were prevalent amongst them all. Neither were they unfamiliar with the harangues of the unit's commisar, whom afterward would leave them and move onto the next truck loaded with canon-fodder as they headed toward the front.
Even the death and destuction of the whole column around them amidst a horrific crashing of bombs and tortured metal, amongst which even now moans and cries of help emanated, was not a deciding factor in their decision.
It was the death of a common soldier, a good luck talisman that made up their minds for them. Before the commander and his handlers could try to regain control of his men, they were slipping away, one by one, into the tall sunflowers, leaving behind only a few living men amidst a larger group of those dying or destined to die.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Unwelcome visitors
August 15, 1942 20:00 hours
The armored column stopped in one of the many balkas that snaked haphazardly across the steppe as the sun had begun to set. The Western horizon, alight as if it was being consumed by the huge, orange ball glowed into the deepening dusk.
At the bottom of the balka, with the light hand-lamps, Hans was concluding a meeting of the senior staff of the Kampfgruppe. Spread out on the hood of the command halftrack was a ragged map.
"Tomorrow is the day, gentlemen, when we kick the door open." Hans paused for effect. "According to intelligence, these small Kolkhozes on the outskirts are defended by militia and rabble left over from our breakthrough at the bridgehead. Luftwaffe support will be available from 0900 for about an hour. Division expects to be up with the bulk of its units by afternoon at the latest. Corps should be coming up by late tomorrow evening. Let's be sure we give them a proper place to billet !"
Snickers came from the dark around the map.
"You all have your assignments. Be ready to go at first light. Dis-missed".
As the men descended into the gathering gloom to find their units, Peitor emerged from the darkness and offered Hans a mug of coffee. Hans nodded his thanks and went back to peering intently at the map.
After a few moments, Hans realized Peitor was still standing next to him, also peering at the map.
"Something troubling you Peitor ?"
"Herr Hauptman, far be it for me question things that are beyond my pay-grade, but I have an uneasy feeling about this one."
"Ja. Me too. Once past these Kolkhozes we have a pretty large city in front of us. That damn grain elevator is going to be a beast to capture. The factories beyond are pretty formidable too. And if we are in the city, we have these long flanks out here in the steppe to maintain against God knows what. I hope Corps doesn't expect us to take the city ourselves- we need more infantry than we have." Hans sighed resignedly.
"All we can do is follow orders to the best of our abilities, and all will work out right. That served us well in Poland, Belgium, and France. This time its just taking a little bit longer."
Peitor shrugged. "I've served with you since the begining, and I have to say I will defer to your judgement."
Hans clapped Peitor on the shoulder. "Let's hope I am not wrong this time."
The armored column stopped in one of the many balkas that snaked haphazardly across the steppe as the sun had begun to set. The Western horizon, alight as if it was being consumed by the huge, orange ball glowed into the deepening dusk.
At the bottom of the balka, with the light hand-lamps, Hans was concluding a meeting of the senior staff of the Kampfgruppe. Spread out on the hood of the command halftrack was a ragged map.
"Tomorrow is the day, gentlemen, when we kick the door open." Hans paused for effect. "According to intelligence, these small Kolkhozes on the outskirts are defended by militia and rabble left over from our breakthrough at the bridgehead. Luftwaffe support will be available from 0900 for about an hour. Division expects to be up with the bulk of its units by afternoon at the latest. Corps should be coming up by late tomorrow evening. Let's be sure we give them a proper place to billet !"
Snickers came from the dark around the map.
"You all have your assignments. Be ready to go at first light. Dis-missed".
As the men descended into the gathering gloom to find their units, Peitor emerged from the darkness and offered Hans a mug of coffee. Hans nodded his thanks and went back to peering intently at the map.
After a few moments, Hans realized Peitor was still standing next to him, also peering at the map.
"Something troubling you Peitor ?"
"Herr Hauptman, far be it for me question things that are beyond my pay-grade, but I have an uneasy feeling about this one."
"Ja. Me too. Once past these Kolkhozes we have a pretty large city in front of us. That damn grain elevator is going to be a beast to capture. The factories beyond are pretty formidable too. And if we are in the city, we have these long flanks out here in the steppe to maintain against God knows what. I hope Corps doesn't expect us to take the city ourselves- we need more infantry than we have." Hans sighed resignedly.
"All we can do is follow orders to the best of our abilities, and all will work out right. That served us well in Poland, Belgium, and France. This time its just taking a little bit longer."
Peitor shrugged. "I've served with you since the begining, and I have to say I will defer to your judgement."
Hans clapped Peitor on the shoulder. "Let's hope I am not wrong this time."
The drive to doorstep
August 15, 1942 13:00 hours :
The sun was up, bright and hot in a pale blue sky. Dust swirled around the columns of the advance guard as they plunged onward, East into the vast Russian steppe. Their objective- a series of small worker's farms on the outskirts of a large industrial city.
Dust covered the columns like black soot. Human beings were unrecognizable, only goggled, non-human forms perched atop turrets and APCs. Hatches were open, as the heat was well nigh unbearable, allowing fine dark dust to coat every surface, every inch of the armored behemoths.
Hans attempted to clear his goggles of dust as he bucked to and fro from the gently rocking of the SPW 250/1 halftrack. Having removed his goggles, his highlighted eyes appeared ghostly and surrounded by a dark mask. Around him, somewhere amidst the clouds of dust, he glimped some of the units under his command along with his accompaning tank support, in wedge formation.
"Better than walking, no ?" came a playful shout from inside the halftrack's cabin, barely audible over the din of the vehicle's motor. Peitor emerged from further below and proffered his canteen.
"We could be going in circles, for christ's sake. If the scouts wanted to play a terrible trick on us we'd never know !" He grinned and took his friend's proffered canteen with relish and took a small swallow. "Argh ! Even the water tastes brackish. I might need a new aide- You'd think that an aide of mine would have the sense to at least fill it with vodka or something less nasty" Hans grinned as he handed the canteen back.
"I'll take your advise under consideration, Admiral" Peitor quipped, taking a small sip himself before stowing the bottle away in the corner of the halftrack.
"Yes, it is as if we are at sea here- a dry, brown, unending sea." Hans shook his head and thought to himself "What I would do to see the forests of my farm now. On a cool, clear autumn day, when the cool breeze whistles through the pines..."
From out of the sea of dust directly in front emerged what appeared to be a destroyed tank, causing the halftrack to turn abruptly, tossing the contents of the HQ staff to one side of the halftrack. Ghostly lumps, barely visible in the swirling dust indicated the remains of mangled trucks, tanks, and bodies of men.
"Apologies, herr Major !" The assistant driver shouted over the din of the halftrack's interior. "You'd all better hang on, we are approaching the point where the Luftwaffe smashed a Russian column coming out to counterattack the bridgehead yesterday. The scouts ahead report a large quantity of destroyed materiel. In this dust it may be a bit difficult to dodge them all easily."
"Understood." Hans shrugged his shoulders resignedly, more irritated at being torn out of his reverie than by any irritation from the rough ride. Seeing that clearing his goggles were a lost cause, he put them back on as they were. His whole world became one of swirling dust, the din of the motor, and the swaying of the halftrack.
The sun was up, bright and hot in a pale blue sky. Dust swirled around the columns of the advance guard as they plunged onward, East into the vast Russian steppe. Their objective- a series of small worker's farms on the outskirts of a large industrial city.
Dust covered the columns like black soot. Human beings were unrecognizable, only goggled, non-human forms perched atop turrets and APCs. Hatches were open, as the heat was well nigh unbearable, allowing fine dark dust to coat every surface, every inch of the armored behemoths.
Hans attempted to clear his goggles of dust as he bucked to and fro from the gently rocking of the SPW 250/1 halftrack. Having removed his goggles, his highlighted eyes appeared ghostly and surrounded by a dark mask. Around him, somewhere amidst the clouds of dust, he glimped some of the units under his command along with his accompaning tank support, in wedge formation.
"Better than walking, no ?" came a playful shout from inside the halftrack's cabin, barely audible over the din of the vehicle's motor. Peitor emerged from further below and proffered his canteen.
"We could be going in circles, for christ's sake. If the scouts wanted to play a terrible trick on us we'd never know !" He grinned and took his friend's proffered canteen with relish and took a small swallow. "Argh ! Even the water tastes brackish. I might need a new aide- You'd think that an aide of mine would have the sense to at least fill it with vodka or something less nasty" Hans grinned as he handed the canteen back.
"I'll take your advise under consideration, Admiral" Peitor quipped, taking a small sip himself before stowing the bottle away in the corner of the halftrack.
"Yes, it is as if we are at sea here- a dry, brown, unending sea." Hans shook his head and thought to himself "What I would do to see the forests of my farm now. On a cool, clear autumn day, when the cool breeze whistles through the pines..."
From out of the sea of dust directly in front emerged what appeared to be a destroyed tank, causing the halftrack to turn abruptly, tossing the contents of the HQ staff to one side of the halftrack. Ghostly lumps, barely visible in the swirling dust indicated the remains of mangled trucks, tanks, and bodies of men.
"Apologies, herr Major !" The assistant driver shouted over the din of the halftrack's interior. "You'd all better hang on, we are approaching the point where the Luftwaffe smashed a Russian column coming out to counterattack the bridgehead yesterday. The scouts ahead report a large quantity of destroyed materiel. In this dust it may be a bit difficult to dodge them all easily."
"Understood." Hans shrugged his shoulders resignedly, more irritated at being torn out of his reverie than by any irritation from the rough ride. Seeing that clearing his goggles were a lost cause, he put them back on as they were. His whole world became one of swirling dust, the din of the motor, and the swaying of the halftrack.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
