sharlin
Banned
This is going with another and much larger piece of AH that folks have been working on for a looooong time and I need you lovely folks feedback.
The Story of Strongpoint 481
The Kremlin - Moscow 1939
The oak panelled room still had its Romanov grandeur, oak and marble wall panels, gilt gold decoration and framing, mirrors as tall as a man reflecting the cold grey skies outside. Around the huge dark oak table were Officers, Commissars, Construction planners, Industrialists and more, all high ranking members of the Communist Party and all in Moscow for a purpose.
"Comrades with the Molotov Line under construction we all know that the need for defence in depth is a requirement for any defensive barrier to work. Comrade Stalin has charged us to plan and organise construction of a new defensive belt and if needs be a third, in light of the on-going fighting to the West which may involve us if we will it or not. The plan is to begin work this summer, our Comrades from the NKVD will be supplying labour from the Gulags as well as security detachments to keep a watchful eye on them, and they will also be in charge of the camps." A stern looking man in a plain and rather unadorned uniform nodded at this, dark brown eyes looking round the room at the assembled soldiers and civilians, most of them didn't meet his gaze.
"Comrade Philipov from the Ministry of Construction here will be in charge of organising all the concrete and steel deliveries as will liaise with the Ministers of Rail and General Machine Building to ensure that we have what we need, when we need it and where we need it. I don't envy your task Comrade."
That got a few chuckles, none of them envied their jobs, this was going to be a massive project, mobilising thousands of workers and prisoners, army detachments, track laying teams, concrete and reinforced concrete production, massed movement of digging equipment and more on a scale not seen since the construction of the Moscow Canal. It was a project that would make or break careers and if you failed, there was every chance you'd be helping to dig the trenches that were being planned in this very room.
"Now I will let General Berezin talk about the most vital aspect of the Stalin line, its armament. General?"
The man in question was quite young for an officer of his rank, then again the Purges had seen that most of the older, experienced Senior Staff had been liquidated meaning that men had to be promoted up through the ranks, and he cleared his throat before speaking.
"For this project the Army has opened the doors to every armoury in the land, but what I propose is that we kill two birds with one stone. With the construction of our new tanks proceeding at great speed thanks to our comrades in the factories, we have a huge reserve of older machines that have been rendered dated by our new construction. To speed construction of our strongpoints and arm them quickly, I propose that we use that pool of vehicles. Most of our machines have a 45mm or short 76.2mm gun as well as more machine guns than probably in service in many of the world’s armies. We can drive these tanks to prepared positions and bury them. This way we add to their protection whilst keeping their turrets exposed. This will mean less concrete pouring, less worrying about drainage. We use the tanks as ready-made gun positions, pull out their machine guns and place them on the defences we build. This will save time, money and effort but will produce the desired result. My comrades in the Artillery have promised us all the guns we need both for long range bombardment and anti-aircraft defence."
That had taken a lot of wrangling and arm twisting, true most of the guns offered were the older artillery pieces but they would more than suffice considering the stream of weapons being churned out at factories across the land that would replace them. The army had been glad to get rid of the mass of T-26's, T-28's and BT's, most of who were in serious need of an overhaul, spare parts or simply needed to be scrapped. This way they got rid of the mass of metal and freed up men to be redeployed. The crews of the tanks vital to their operation once emplaced, the gunner, loader and commander were designated Fortress Troops and whilst companies and squadrons were kept together they were to be massed under new Regiments of combined arms units with the Fortress troops being a mix of tankers, artillery and infantry.
That decision had caused more than a few arguments and even more ulcers and sleepless nights spent organising units but if Comrade Stalin said it was to happen, then it would happen, come hell or high water. Even the navy had somehow got involved, offering some 5.1 inch guns that had been removed from its battleships after their refits.
The discussions went on and on, day after day. Plans for the layout of trenches, the choice of positions for strongpoints, railway positions, where airfields were to be placed, ammunition stored and the like were brought up, whilst orders were sent to begin moving the workers and prisoners who would do the physical labour as well as the precious industrial equipment that would help with the project. After two weeks they had a workable plan, which would no doubt be revised but it was accepted and approved, construction could now begin. There were some concerns about the mix bag of armament being assigned to the defensive position but the NKVD man had stepped in at that point.
"These weapons are adequate, besides no attacker will breach our border or even reach these positions, but Comrade Stalin in his wisdom has ordered that it be done, if anyone thinks that an attacker would get this far into the motherland that is a defeatists attitude that I will not tolerate." And that was the end of that. And he was right; after all, no attacker would surely get this far into Russia, would they?
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Somewhere in central Russia May 12th 1942
Replacements for casualties were shipped forwards in train, truck and on cart; anything that had wheels was being used to move men, equipment and ammunition to the front. Aleksandr Kosagyn, Company Commissar grunted as his head hit the bare wood frame of the carriage he and a mish-mash of senior ranks from Lieutenant up to Colonel that were either on the troop train with their men or were replacements like him. The few other Commissars on the train each had a noticeable bubble round them in the crowded carriage, Aleksandr accepted this but he was still getting used to it. One advantage was that it gave him room to write home.
He glanced at the first letter to his Father the man he 'owed' for getting him this position, but then again you didn't say no to Father. He had his place to uphold and having a son as a Commissar would naturally show to other members of the Party that he was trustworthy and worthy of promotion himself. Aleksandr had wanted to be a historian before the war, studying at Moscow University before the outbreak of war and his father’s hand had found him and dragged him into a role he did not want but had accepted silently.
Dear Father.
I am to join my unit soon, I will fire the men’s spirits and ensure the fascists do not pass us any further into Mother Russia. Take care and do not worry about me, the Fascists will not stand a chance.
Love
Aleksandr
'There...that sounds suitably patriotic' the young man thought to himself. It wasn't true of course, he was scared, he'd read the un-edited reports coming from the frontlines that he would have to spin to his men as great victories, of course not mentioning the entire Regiments devoured in the fighting, of units cut off in the massed advance and withdrawals, of tank companies wiped out to a vehicle. Somehow he was expected to instil courage in the men, that or fear of him and fear of failure. He had vowed to opt for the first option, he would be strong, he had to be strong, but strength did not come from being feared. If you was hated by your men there was a good chance of an 'accident' and 'terrible loss of a beloved Commissar.' Better to have the men more willing to shoot the Germans than yourself.
________________
May 18th 1942 – Strongpoint 481 – Stalin Line.
The tour of the trenches and defensive strongpoints had impressed Aleksandr. The men were motivated, often by the barks of their Sergeants and were drilling constantly when they were not digging trenches or laying barbed wire and mine fields. The newly assigned Officers were doing their best to learn from their more experienced counterparts whilst the Regiments CO, a man prematurely aged by the war, his formerly black hair shot through with streaks of grey was Aleksandr’s guide.
“As you can see Comrade Commissar, we’ve got the men training night and day, even my Officers are helping and providing leadership when needed.”
“You’ve done well Colonel, I understand the men think very highly of you, it was you who got them out of the Minsk pocket in a fighting withdrawal after all.”
“I took them in the right direction Comrade Commissar, the men are the ones who should be praised. They didn’t break, they didn’t flee.”
Aleksandr nodded whilst Colonel Kadoshchuk regarded the young man. It was hard to judge him, he seemed to know his stuff and was not as pig headed as the previous Commissar who had been killed by a German shell during the retreat from Minsk. No. This one seemed to be willing to listen and wasn’t overly fond of the lash.
“I will make a report to headquarters when I can Comrade Colonel citing your skills and those of your men. Who knows. The 597thGuards Rifles does have a nice ring to it.”
Both men chuckled at that when in truth the last thing on their minds was medals and awards. Staying alive was far more important as was not being captured.
The heart of the defences was a low hill, crested with concrete bunkers and firing points. Buried underground and shielded by earth, concrete and the trunks of felled trees was the Regiments command post. In the immediate area was eight dug in tanks, only their turrets poking out from the earth and wood that now covered them and consisted of the following:
4 x BT-5 – 45mm cannon, 1 x mg per vehicle.
2 x T-26 – 45mm cannon, 1 x mg per vehicle.
1 x T-28 – 76mm cannon 3 x mg.
1 x KV-2 – 152mm cannon, 2 x mg.
The T-28’s crew had been rather enterprising, and with the aid of a tractor and some men from a nearby regiments motor pool had removed the two forward turrets from the ungainly tank. These were now flanking the crest of the hill near the command post, mounted on ad-hoc rotating bases powered by hand and a ‘repurposed’ truck engine. Three dozen mortars of all sizes supported the four lines of trenches, only one of which was concrete the others had been dug, mostly by hand in the frantic preparations. More trenches were still being dug and miles of barbed wire laid out. Extensive camouflage measures were being undertaken, nearby copses of trees that were not filled with guns, men or mines were stripped down to provide wood and branches to cover the reinforced fighting positions and the gun positions and tanks. Miles back was the real heavy hitters of the defensive line, dug in artillery ranging from 76mm howitzers to a handful of the big 152mm M1931s. Over the past few days more than a few hours of sleep had been disturbed as the guns pre-registered their sights.
Whilst the survivors of the 296th had been far from saddened when their Commissar had been shredded by a Fascist shell they were warming to the replacement. He’d not even shot anyone yet which had been a first.
The entire battalion was spread over the defensive ‘island’ either in the three rows of trenches, in the bunkers or in the rear with a few T-26 and BT-7 tanks to provide a counter attacking force or guard the mortars and four artillery guns. They were all bone weary, save the bastard and his tank crew (a KV-2 commander and his men), most of the time was spent reinforcing the defences, laying more mines, more meters of barbed wire, placing more obstacles but there was little chance of a rest, the Sergeants were always watching and they usually didn’t resort to threats of disciplinary matters, but had a few willing NCO’s to ‘encourage’ obedience at the end of their fists.
Down in the trenches a few heads popped up, drawn by the sound of laughter but quickly popped down again when they saw just who it was who was laughing.
“All well and good for them to laugh…they are not the ones breaking their backs filling sandbags.”
“Hah! I thought you Siberians were as tough as draft horses and didn’t complain about anything apart from being too warm Nikolai.”
“Tougher than you pansy city boys at least.”
“Fuck you.”
“No thanks, but I’ll fuck your mother.”
The small gaggle all chuckled and carried on their manual labour, most of them were survivors from the 296th and their casual attitude and way they spoke about what they were doing, about the enemy, about home was quite a shock to the younger and more indoctrinated soldiers from the 301st. Back home you didn’t complain, you didn’t call a superior a derogatory term and you just did as you was told. To see men talking freely about anything was quite a culture shock. Each Company was rotating through a mixture of training, trench digging and sandbag filling. It was backbreaking work that left the men exhausted but their morale was high and proficiency with drills and plans was rapidly improving.
Several hundred meters away the Regimental band broke into a rousing rendition of the now very popular song Katusha which elicited a few cheers across the position as well as some men singing along rather badly to the popular tune. The band was working as hard as everyone else, most of them had been assigned to the medical posts as orderlies and was helping set up triage posts. Getting together to play had been done off their own backs. It had started several days ago and no one had moved to stop it and now was a daily feature.
“A band playing whilst we work..they didn’t say anything about this in Komsomol..” A young spotty faced private said, glancing up at the band as they started belting out The Russian Revolution.
“Hah there’s a lot you need to learn boy, now keep digging, this berm is not going to build itself.”
“Yes Comrade!”
“And cut it out with comrade, we have names too. I’m Ioseph.”
“Yes Co..Ioseph.”
Some of the Frontoviks rolled their eyes and shook their heads slightly. Many didn’t want the young boys in their units, under trained and barely big enough to take the kick of a Nagant in some cases. Still they were hard workers and keen to impress their older and more experienced comrades. Up on the hill the band went into playing the new song ‘The Sacred War’ apparently there were lyrics, no one knew them so men hummed along as they worked.
Several dozen miles behind the fortifications, far from prying eyes and the tongues of those who might be tempted to desert was a gathering of the most powerful units in the Soviet army. Massed tanks and artillery support, not part of any defensive plan, the massed regiments were gathered for a general offensive. One that was (it was hoped) would shatter the German offensive and turn the tide of the war. Tank crews listened to their machines engines like a doctor would a heart whilst infantry were used as draft animals to haul boxes of ammunition forwards from depots miles back. Overhead LaGG and MiG fighters prowled, looking for Fascist reconnaissance planes. If it worked, it would be one hell of a surprise for the invaders of the Motherland
________________
May 19th Strongpoint 481
"At three hundred meters one five round volley, in your own time, carry on!”
The distinctive crack-SNAP of Nagant rifles firing filled the air, the roughly set up range was the domain of Senior Sargent Pushkin (no relation) and a few of his ‘underlings’. Through bawled commands and the application of a boot to the arse he had managed to improve the men’s rifle drills and accuracy. Whilst his habit of firing a burst from his PPD over the heads of men whilst they shot was unnerving, it worked. Many of the new recruits were less jumpy around gunfire, not enough for Senior Sargent Pushkin, but then again after surviving what he had during the retreat then anyone who had not ran through a Fascist artillery barrage was a ‘pussy’.
“Stop pulling the rifle back like it’s a girl saying ‘no’, hold onto the damn thing!”
“Estafi if I see you looking away one more time before you fire..”
“Malashenko..good shot. Don’t screw up the others though. But one shot can take out two men. The Fritz will try and help their injured, so make sure you don’t miss!”
There were a few muffled thumps from the grenade range, a few tree stumps and some straw filled dummies were good enough targets, all be it ones that didn’t shoot back. Other platoons were running around in full combat dress, even the Officers were taking part and getting yelled at along with the rest of their men and told just how shit they were pretty much at everything.
That was when the air raid siren started to howl, followed by the rapid firing of the sectors AA guns. Men scattered, diving into small slip trenches whilst scanning the skies. Thousands of feet above them a German Fw-189 rumbled along camera’s whirring as its pilots ignored the black puffs of smoke that mostly burst into being well below their high flying plane. With their Army Groups approaching the Stalin Line the Germans wanted to know as much as they could. What they missed, dozens of miles behind the defences, expertly camouflaged was a huge collection of men, tanks and guns that were waiting to be unleashed against the invaders. On the 26th they would be let loose.
_______________________________
26th of May 1942 – 0400 AM
At 0400 every gun that could reach the distant Fascist formations opened fire. Everything from 104mm howitzers firing at extreme range to the 152mm heavy guns and three massive 10 inch guns on rail mountings started blazing away. Added to this was the distinctive and eerie howl of Katusha rockets which was almost drowned out by the sounds of engines and tracks as thousands of carefully husbanded T-34 and KV-1 tanks and massed infantry support threw themselves at Army Group Centre.
Even the vaunted Luftwaffe was taken by surprise at the appearance of massed and modern YaK, MiG and LaGG fighters as well as wave after wave of IL-2 and PE-2’s filled the air. Barely over thirty kilometres away the German vanguard was broken and crushed, tank gunners raged in fear and anger as their 50mm guns bounced off the Soviet tanks at all but the closest ranges whilst the familiar and popular 37mm gun of the Infantry was worse than useless. Approaching the end of their logistical tether the Germans were caught unprepared but reacted quickly and whilst their machines were for the most part inferior their crews were better trained whilst the Soviets made the same mistakes again and again. But quantity had a quality all of its own and that’s what counted.
“Traverse right! Faster…target!”
“On!”
“Fire!”
The 50mm L60 gun barked, the brass casing dropping to the floor with a clang that was drowned out by the growl of the engine and the rumble of tracks as the Panzer III accelerated.
“Three see if you can flank him, we’ll use this copse for cover and keep his attention on us.”
The radio crackled a response
“Fire!”
The gun recoiled again, the loader slamming another AP round into the breech. Ducking behind a cratered hill the Panzer commander cursed softly. The Soviets were not supposed to have machines this good, intelligence about their main tank indicated something that was equal to a Panzer IV and based on the T-28 hull. A shattering artillery barrage had washed over his company’s position before forward scouts reported enemy Panzers. That was 30 minutes ago. Only ten minutes ago three dark green Soviet Panzers had nosed over a dried river bank and begun engaging the six German Panzers, a mix of four Panzer IIIs one Panzer IV and a Panzer-38(t).
The Russians were something new, there was a similarity to the big ‘Fortress Tanks’ with their huge blocky turrets and 152mm guns, but these had different turrets and a potent gun that had shattered the Panzer-38(t) with a hit, parts of the small Czech tank winnowing away from its hulk along with a good length of track linkage. The Soviet behemoths shrugged off the 50mm guns of the Panzer IIIs with ease, it was infuriating to watch a shot just bounce off leaving a faint mark or scrape, infuriating and terrifying.
“Three in position!”
“Driver forwards, forwards left, gunner prepare to fire.”
“Forwards!”
The Panzer lurched out from cover, one Soviet behemoth was facing them its turret slewing in their direction its two comrades were a distance off, guns vomiting an impressive blast every time they fired. Their target was about 400 meters away, the blocky turret swinging round to track them where there was a CRACK and a flash and the Soviet shook as a round gouged a chunk out of the manlet round the gun.
“This is two, engaging target!”
The company’s Panzer IV let rip with another shot from its long 75 with the same effect as the previous round, the shot hit the curved side the turret with a heavy thud leaving a bruise in the metal but little more. The big Soviets engine revved and its tracks bit as it lurched round to face this threat, its gun raising and turning as another round smacked into its turret with no visible effect before it returned fire.
The 76mm round was aimed low, slamming into the front of the hull next to the driver, the armour barely slowing the heavy shell, the blast and spall tearing the driver and loader into human offal before the ammunition caught and the German medium tank erupted in flames.
“Company withdraw! More Soviets are coming, repeat, more Soviet heavies are coming!”
German commanders could identify no schwerpunkt, no axis of attack with the Soviet offensive just a broad fronted push along the threatened sectors. Some units were broken and scattered whilst others were fighting tenaciously and managing to hold, but only just. The only good news was in the air. Although surprised by the new Soviet machines the skill of the Germans combined with their fearsome FW-190 had quickly won back air superiority and then established air supremacy, clawing Soviet planes from the sky in their hundreds. Only now were the Stuka’s and bombers making their presence felt, striking the Soviets supply lines and armour when it was on open ground. Only the Luftwaffe was preventing a rout.
The so called Great Offensive was supposed to be the first step on the road to Berlin, yet after five days of fighting the Soviet offensive had slowly ground to a halt in the face of tightening German resistance on the ground and their utter dominance in the air. The VVS had mostly been swept from the air with squadrons being utterly decimated. Their new aircraft were equal to the BF-109’s they had encountered but the new FW-190’s had clawed them from the air. A few morale raising air raids on Germany and Berlin in particular by Pe-8’s had caused some damage but most other bomber squadrons were having to be reformed, those who suffered 75% casualties were viewed as getting off lightly.
For the men of Strongpoint 481 watching the exhausted and greatly diminished forces trickle back past them was a huge blow to morale. The men had cheered themselves hoarse watching the attack go over whilst the skyline was lit up with the flash of heavy gun fire. Most had assumed that they would be joining the assault as a second wave to drive the Fascist snakes back to their lair, the news stories and reports from their Officers had said as much.
“What do you make of it Comrade Commissar?”
“In historical terms this is a ‘sally from the gates’ Comrade Colonel..what we know is that the Germans have been hit hard, if the number of prisoners we saw coming our way is true.”
“Hmm..”
“You can speak frankly comrade Colonel.”
That got a chuckle from the older man, still not use to his younger ‘watchdog’s’ somewhat odd ways.
“If the offensive was a failure and our forces are withdrawing we will be next. The offensive has bought us time.”
“I would assume the same, if we hit the fritzes hard enough they will need to re-organise their forces just like we will. “
“So it will be a race?”
“With quite the prize at the end.”
“Hmm….you was right by the way comrade Commissar.”
“Oh?”
“Yes..The 597th Guard Regiment does have a nice ring to it..we’ll need it after we’ve won here.”
“I’ll sign the request myself.”
“Please. I’d rather not be shot.”
“Don’t worry comrade Colonel, you’ve not done anything to deserve being shot. Yet.”
Colonel Kadoshchuck regarded his Commissar for a moment, the younger man’s face was deadpan and it was hard to tell if he was joking or not. That was until there was a creasing of his lips, the ghost of a smile.
“Remind me never to play poker with you after the war…” The Colonel chuckled and turned back to the command post as the air raid siren started to howl for the 4th time that evening.
_______________________________
August 17th - Strongpoint 481
Private Malashenko sat down for a moment, letting his arms rest before resuming stacking sandbags, his rifle was near at hand, they had to carry their arms where ever they went even this far ‘back’ in the Stalin Line from the front line positions. He glanced up, seeing something moving in the grey clouds a moment before the air raid siren started yowling whilst a pair of bugles started playing ‘attention’ on their horns. Running for his platoon’s position he saw aircraft, the easily recognisable shape of Stuka’s and Nazi bombers in the distance heading his way. Black puffs of smoke started dotting the overcast sky, the rapid thump of flak guns blasting away. There were cheers as German aircraft were hit and blotted from the sky or forced to turn back streaming smoke but there seemed to be no end to their numbers.
Position 481’s AA guns were firing now, rapid firing 45mm guns and the heavy thump of 76mm guns a bass percussion to the kettle drum rattle of the lighter cannons and machine guns now joining them.
There were more cheers as Soviet fighters broke through the clouds, twisting and turning through the Nazi formation, the Germans interceptors hunting them down. Then the artillery opened fire.
Safely embedded in the Stalin line were thousands of artillery pieces spread over a huge area, ranging from light 76mm howitzers all the way up to the big 152mm M1931s and the huge 203mm howitzers and to some of the youngest members of the battalion who until recently had not heard anything louder than the rumble of tractor engine or a bell ringing were almost unmanned with fear. The veterans just tightened the straps on their steel helmets and pressed deeper into the trenches waiting for the inevitable bombs and shells to start falling.
“Bloody hell what’s going on Sargent?”
“I don’t bloody know, keep your heads down the lot of you, Krastinov that means you! Get down now before you lose that pretty head of yours!”
“Comrades! Hear me!” All heads turned at that. It was the Commissar he was walking along the back of the trenches, slightly pale faced but clearly resolved.
“Comrades! The attack we knew was coming has started. The Fascist pigs are attacking once more and it is our duty to the Motherland and Comrade Stalin to hold the line and force them back! Our brothers in the air force will tear the Germans from the skies, our armoured forces will crush the Panzers under their tanks. Not one step back Comrades, today will be the day we stomp the Fascist snakes!”
“Oh shit…” someone muttered but the conscripts stood up a little straighter in their trenches. There was little love amongst them for Stalin but they did love their country and all had seen friends killed or injured in battle, perhaps now they would have a chance to turn the tables and make the Germans fall back and retreat.
______________________________________
August 21st 1942 - Strongpoint 481
The ground before the trenches was a shell and splinter torn waste ground, in some places craters from bomb and shell merged into one. Trenches had collapsed burying men under avalanches of earth and grass. Of the six bunkers, four were smashed ruins, one still burned fiercely. Splintered logs used to reinforce strongpoints and trench walls were raked with rifle and machinegun bullets, looking for all the world like some great bear had dragged its claws down them. Corpses lay everywhere, the green summer uniforms of Germans now lay as dusty mounds on the earth where they had fallen, the Russians in their khaki uniforms lay amongst their defensive positions, mingled with the Germans or on the edges of craters. Smoke from burning vehicles filled the air with its acrid tang, German Panzers still billowing smoke from their turrets hatches or sides where they had been torn open. The KV-2, its massive turret buckled and torn by repeated impacts that bludgeoned the machine into submission and ruin.
The battalion had been shredded, a platoon could count itself lucky if it had more than two dozen men to its name, almost every junior Officer had been killed, dying along with their men in the huge brawl of a three day battle as the Germans threw everything they had at a narrow point of the Stalin line to breach it and press into the clear regions beyond. In some areas they had succeeded, punching through the defences all be it at horrific cost whilst at other locations like Position 481 where the defences had held. Just.
Commissar Kosagyn sat slumped on a torn sandbag, his whole body numb, ears ringing, face streaked with smoke and lined with sweat. The past three days had been a horrifying blur to the young man, on the heels of their first air raid came a heavy artillery bombardment which covered the advance of the Panzers and infantry.
Of course to the Soviets each enemy platoon was the feared and hated SS, some even said it was Hitler’s personal guard the Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler and they’d had it drummed into them that no mercy was to be expected or given. The experienced Frontoviks and raw recruits from young boy to old men had all stood up in their trenches, fighting and dying where they stood.
Kosagyn remembered one old man a conscript from Moscow beside him in the trenches, the Germans were bounding forwards, using what cover they could, mortars giving them covering fire whilst the Panzers engaged strongpoints and AT guns. The Commissar had been about to order an infantry charge, it was the only tactic he’d had drilled into him in his truncated training, none of the intricate fire and manoeuvre demonstrated by the Germans, but a straight forwards bull rush. Pistol in trembling hand Kosagyn had readied himself to lead the charge, half standing a yell on his lips when he crashed back against the muddy wall of the trench, the old Muscovite had pulled him back by the hem of his coat.
“Not yet Comrade Commissar, they have machine guns covering them we’d get cut down for no gain, here we can bleed them dry!”
The man’s actions were insubordinate and cowardly and yet…and yet it made sense. Quietly thanking God for the chance to live a little longer whilst giving a man old enough to be his father a glare the Commissar had recovered his now muddy pistol and resumed firing. The old man was long dead, killed some time on day two, the top of his head obliterated by a rifle shot as he peeked out of cover, his body one of the hundreds strewn round the smoking ruin that had been Defensive Strongpoint 481.
Now everyone seemed to sense it was close to the end. Most of the bunkers were gone, the KV-2 was ablaze, finally killed by Fascist engineers with demolition charges, the phone lines were cut, the earth trenches overrun and ammunition was low. Some Fascist Panzers pushed on past the position, leaving the infantry to mop up the ragged remains of the defenders. Compressed into a shrinking defensive perimeter using the concrete and tree trunk lined strongpoints and trenches for cover the fighting devolved to brutal short range fighting where bayonet, knife and spade were just as lethal as rifle and SMG.
At about 1400 the firing to the east had increased in tempo and violence and at around 1900 the Soviets had been amazed to see something they’d not expected to live to see. The Germans withdrawing, Infantry first and then tanks surging back from the east, their turrets facing to the rear, their sides lined with men. Little more than an hour later Soviet tanks, huge dark green machines of a type not seen before had lumbered past Point 481, accompanying the great dark machines were the familiar T-50s, accompanying the huge tanks like hunting hounds round their masters, waiting to be let off the leash.
The exhausted defenders of Point 481 had been too tired to cheer, barely able to stir themselves to search for the wounded or dead comrades.
“Commissar! Sir! Did you hear? The fascists have been driven back! Our leaders had armoured forces waiting for them beyond our lines, the Germans are retreating!”
It was some young soldier, one of the Brigadier’s cronies from the signals department. Alexsandr offered him a tired smile. “Pass the good news on Soldier, let our men know that their sacrifices and the sacrifices of their comrades were not in vain.”
Alexsandr sat back as the signalman ran off, he closed his eyes and promptly passed out from exhaustion.
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German Occupied Russia.
“What do you mean ‘barely adequate for its role’? And please speak honestly. You are not under orders or before courts martial.”
“Sir I am merely stating what I saw and what I feel. My Company got four of the new Panzers (the 3601) and we lead a local counter attack against a Soviet position that was deemed to be a threat. The new machine performed fine on the terrain and its roomy, much easier to move around in than the IV but in all other respects….it was only adequate. The gun is the same as is being fitted to the newest Panzer IV’s and our Jagdpanzers and it was fine against the new T-34 but it was not the long range killer we hoped for.”
“Please explain Captain.”
“I can’t guess the minds of the designers but the gun was built to fight the older Soviet tanks we knew about, we’d been briefed about the T-34 which now appears to be a phantom or ruse as well as the T-29 heavy tank, again another ruse. The Soviet medium that we now know is called the T-34 is worryingly resistant to 75mm gunfire. Their hull armour is sloped and this at long range seriously degraded our chances of punching through their plate without being exposed to return fire. Whilst we were able to disable them it was at medium to short ranges whilst the large tanks the KV-1 were more troublesome.
Whilst they are lumbering beasts, they have a good gun and very thick hides. Our shells were bouncing off them like…like tennis balls; all we did was leave gouges in the plate. Only at about 150 meters was we able to punch through them and that was with a flank shot.”
“And how did your machine perform?”
“There was the usual bugs with a new piece of kit..the engine kept overheating for one so we dared not go too fast or rev it too much. The armour was good, at long ranges we heard the crunch and bang of shells bouncing off the front plates and mantlet. Vision for me was superb and the layout of the turret is absolutely first class.”
“But?”
“But…it’s not the machine we hoped, to fight the new Soviets we need to be within the range where their guns can hurt us just as well as we can hurt them and I’ve heard horror stories about the ‘real’ Soviet heavies, that big fortress tank and something about a new heavy tank based on the KV-1 or the Fortress tank...it’s got the men scared Sir.”
General Boch winced at the mention of the ‘Fortress Tank’ designated the SMK. He’d not seen one himself outside of photos but he knew enough. Based on a KV-1 hull and armed with a 76mm gun as well as a 45mm gun or flame thrower the machine was heavily armoured all round. A horror story of one ramming a Panzer III into a ditch then crushing it under its tracks had spread round the army group faster than the common cold, along with it being apparently ‘immune’ to even 88mm Flak shots at common battle ranges.
“Scared?”
“Well..more nervous, we’re used to having the best, we’re the best trained tank men in the world, none can doubt that, but some feel that we’ve not got the machines to equal that now. Panzer III’s are out of their league against the new Soviet machines and Panzer IV’s until they get the long 75 are in just as much trouble. We can still out fight and out think anything the Soviets throw at us but..”
“You want better tools for the job yes?”
“Yes that’s it exactly Sir.”
Boche nodded, his aide had been writing down everything that had been said and it would be converted into a message along with other reports before being sent up the chain. To say the new Russian Panzers had come as a nasty surprise was an understatement. Whilst a few examples were found in the kessels around the Molotov line it was the thoughts of High Command that these machines were only available in limited numbers, not enough to be a threat and the new heavy tank and re-gunned Panzer IV’s would be more than adequate counters. Each Regiment had been briefed about the tanks the Italians had got off the Soviets the so called T-34 and T-29 and was ready to face and crush them as well as any of the older weaker Soviet machines. Not a single example of a ‘T-34’ and ‘T-29’ had been encountered and it now appeared more and more likely that it was all an elaborate ruse by the Russians to trick the Germans and their Allies about their tank strength and development. Even the so called ‘T-100’ tanks at the Moscow May Day Parade had not made an appearance and were probably just refitted T-35’s.
To suddenly face massed ranks of unknown machines that came at you not in Company but Regimental strength again and again, supported by heavy artillery and air attacks had been a body blow to the Army Groups confidence. Some units had crumbled under the onslaught, simply unable to halt the flow of Soviet armour. Several Romanian and Hungarian units had retreated pell-mell which opened gaps the Soviets had poured armour and infantry into, causing more withdrawals and retreats before units were cut off in kessels of their own.
“Thank you Captain, for being earnest with me and honest, I will pass your report along to the highest of Commands along with others as well as recommendations from myself and my colleagues. I will also ensure that your Regiment gets the next batch of heavy tanks.”
“Thank you General. Heil Hitler!” The Officers boots crashed together and his arm shot up in the Nazi salute.
“Heil Hitler, be safe out there Captain.”
___________________________________________
1992 - Western Russia.
Much of the Stalin and Molotov lines were gone, a few points of key interest, of brave holdouts against impossible odds still remained and one of those was Defensive Strongpoint 481. The coach journey to the battlefield had been less than enjoyable, the road stopped being tarmacked about two hours ago and was replaced by a dirt and gravel road leading to the battlefield. The Coach driver, a veteran of battlefield tours knew most of the pot holes so it wasn’t too bad on the passengers, a mix bag of European students, a group from a Moscow University a handful of English and American tourists and six very old and tired looking men. All six were dressed as smartly as they could afford, black trousers and a jacket, usually emblazoned with medals, ribbons and awards all sat together in silence, looking out of the window at the rolling grasslands beyond.
“A bit different from when we were last here eh?”
“Yes…the roads worse.”
“Still complaining Viktor?”
“Try riding in this thing with my hip then you’d understand.”
“Bah, your fault for being a tanker and getting rattled to bits in those coffins.”
The shorter, rather sour faced old man went to speak, anger evident in his eyes before another of the group raised his hand. “Now now comrades, do I have to bang your heads together to get you to behave?”
“Would you?”
“I’d have to, I can’t carry my Tokarev around anymore.”
“Thank god..you always were a terrible shot, more a risk to yourself than the enemy.”
All six chuckled at the (true) joke, for the most part they had been in contact since 1945, attending the May Day Parades and reunions, every year there number getting fewer and fewer but today was special and so the old soldiers travelled once more to the battlefront where they had fought and nearly died, chatting about the ‘good old days’ as well as the bad, ignoring the badly accented English of the tour guide as she droned on about the battle for the Molotov Line as if reciting it from a history book approved by the state. The reality of course was quite, quite different and for the old men it was a mercy when the coach finally halted and they could get out. Unlike that dark day 60 years ago the weather was glorious, clear blue sky and the sun beating down on the huge corn fields that surrounded the battered defences that had once been a formidable link in the defences of Soviet Russia.
Left to rot after the war the position was saved from being wrecked in 1982 and the area was classified as a War Grave. Volunteers, many of them old soldiers had helped clean the place up and clear it but had left the craters, the bunkers and places where men had fought and died intact. One new addition was a huge concrete plinth upon which sat the squat, powerful shape of a KV-3 Heavy tank. It was actually one of the tanks that had reached Point 481 during the German battle and its driver was here now, the short man with the dodgy hip, his features softening when he saw his old machine, tears forming quite unbidden.
“She looks in better condition than when I last saw her..”
“When you last saw her she was nose deep in a swamp in Poland..”
“True..stupid ass of a Commander thought we could get through…I wasn’t about to argue with a Superior.”
“What did they put you in after?”
“A T-44…not as good as the old Warhorse though.”
The six old men plodded round the ruins, reading some of the plaques and dedications to the men who had fought and died there. There were a few tears when they saw names they recognised on the wall of remembrance and the old Tanker needed a few minutes as he sat in the shade of his old ride before the ‘young’ one of the group helped him to his feet.
“Up you get you…” he said offering a hand then a small hip flask. “We’ll do our speech get the hell out of here and go to that pub we passed.”
“You’re paying?”
“Of course.”
“You always was a good man Aleksandr, no wonder your men put up with you for so long..”
The Story of Strongpoint 481
The Kremlin - Moscow 1939
The oak panelled room still had its Romanov grandeur, oak and marble wall panels, gilt gold decoration and framing, mirrors as tall as a man reflecting the cold grey skies outside. Around the huge dark oak table were Officers, Commissars, Construction planners, Industrialists and more, all high ranking members of the Communist Party and all in Moscow for a purpose.
"Comrades with the Molotov Line under construction we all know that the need for defence in depth is a requirement for any defensive barrier to work. Comrade Stalin has charged us to plan and organise construction of a new defensive belt and if needs be a third, in light of the on-going fighting to the West which may involve us if we will it or not. The plan is to begin work this summer, our Comrades from the NKVD will be supplying labour from the Gulags as well as security detachments to keep a watchful eye on them, and they will also be in charge of the camps." A stern looking man in a plain and rather unadorned uniform nodded at this, dark brown eyes looking round the room at the assembled soldiers and civilians, most of them didn't meet his gaze.
"Comrade Philipov from the Ministry of Construction here will be in charge of organising all the concrete and steel deliveries as will liaise with the Ministers of Rail and General Machine Building to ensure that we have what we need, when we need it and where we need it. I don't envy your task Comrade."
That got a few chuckles, none of them envied their jobs, this was going to be a massive project, mobilising thousands of workers and prisoners, army detachments, track laying teams, concrete and reinforced concrete production, massed movement of digging equipment and more on a scale not seen since the construction of the Moscow Canal. It was a project that would make or break careers and if you failed, there was every chance you'd be helping to dig the trenches that were being planned in this very room.
"Now I will let General Berezin talk about the most vital aspect of the Stalin line, its armament. General?"
The man in question was quite young for an officer of his rank, then again the Purges had seen that most of the older, experienced Senior Staff had been liquidated meaning that men had to be promoted up through the ranks, and he cleared his throat before speaking.
"For this project the Army has opened the doors to every armoury in the land, but what I propose is that we kill two birds with one stone. With the construction of our new tanks proceeding at great speed thanks to our comrades in the factories, we have a huge reserve of older machines that have been rendered dated by our new construction. To speed construction of our strongpoints and arm them quickly, I propose that we use that pool of vehicles. Most of our machines have a 45mm or short 76.2mm gun as well as more machine guns than probably in service in many of the world’s armies. We can drive these tanks to prepared positions and bury them. This way we add to their protection whilst keeping their turrets exposed. This will mean less concrete pouring, less worrying about drainage. We use the tanks as ready-made gun positions, pull out their machine guns and place them on the defences we build. This will save time, money and effort but will produce the desired result. My comrades in the Artillery have promised us all the guns we need both for long range bombardment and anti-aircraft defence."
That had taken a lot of wrangling and arm twisting, true most of the guns offered were the older artillery pieces but they would more than suffice considering the stream of weapons being churned out at factories across the land that would replace them. The army had been glad to get rid of the mass of T-26's, T-28's and BT's, most of who were in serious need of an overhaul, spare parts or simply needed to be scrapped. This way they got rid of the mass of metal and freed up men to be redeployed. The crews of the tanks vital to their operation once emplaced, the gunner, loader and commander were designated Fortress Troops and whilst companies and squadrons were kept together they were to be massed under new Regiments of combined arms units with the Fortress troops being a mix of tankers, artillery and infantry.
That decision had caused more than a few arguments and even more ulcers and sleepless nights spent organising units but if Comrade Stalin said it was to happen, then it would happen, come hell or high water. Even the navy had somehow got involved, offering some 5.1 inch guns that had been removed from its battleships after their refits.
The discussions went on and on, day after day. Plans for the layout of trenches, the choice of positions for strongpoints, railway positions, where airfields were to be placed, ammunition stored and the like were brought up, whilst orders were sent to begin moving the workers and prisoners who would do the physical labour as well as the precious industrial equipment that would help with the project. After two weeks they had a workable plan, which would no doubt be revised but it was accepted and approved, construction could now begin. There were some concerns about the mix bag of armament being assigned to the defensive position but the NKVD man had stepped in at that point.
"These weapons are adequate, besides no attacker will breach our border or even reach these positions, but Comrade Stalin in his wisdom has ordered that it be done, if anyone thinks that an attacker would get this far into the motherland that is a defeatists attitude that I will not tolerate." And that was the end of that. And he was right; after all, no attacker would surely get this far into Russia, would they?
_____________
Somewhere in central Russia May 12th 1942
Replacements for casualties were shipped forwards in train, truck and on cart; anything that had wheels was being used to move men, equipment and ammunition to the front. Aleksandr Kosagyn, Company Commissar grunted as his head hit the bare wood frame of the carriage he and a mish-mash of senior ranks from Lieutenant up to Colonel that were either on the troop train with their men or were replacements like him. The few other Commissars on the train each had a noticeable bubble round them in the crowded carriage, Aleksandr accepted this but he was still getting used to it. One advantage was that it gave him room to write home.
He glanced at the first letter to his Father the man he 'owed' for getting him this position, but then again you didn't say no to Father. He had his place to uphold and having a son as a Commissar would naturally show to other members of the Party that he was trustworthy and worthy of promotion himself. Aleksandr had wanted to be a historian before the war, studying at Moscow University before the outbreak of war and his father’s hand had found him and dragged him into a role he did not want but had accepted silently.
Dear Father.
I am to join my unit soon, I will fire the men’s spirits and ensure the fascists do not pass us any further into Mother Russia. Take care and do not worry about me, the Fascists will not stand a chance.
Love
Aleksandr
'There...that sounds suitably patriotic' the young man thought to himself. It wasn't true of course, he was scared, he'd read the un-edited reports coming from the frontlines that he would have to spin to his men as great victories, of course not mentioning the entire Regiments devoured in the fighting, of units cut off in the massed advance and withdrawals, of tank companies wiped out to a vehicle. Somehow he was expected to instil courage in the men, that or fear of him and fear of failure. He had vowed to opt for the first option, he would be strong, he had to be strong, but strength did not come from being feared. If you was hated by your men there was a good chance of an 'accident' and 'terrible loss of a beloved Commissar.' Better to have the men more willing to shoot the Germans than yourself.
________________
May 18th 1942 – Strongpoint 481 – Stalin Line.
The tour of the trenches and defensive strongpoints had impressed Aleksandr. The men were motivated, often by the barks of their Sergeants and were drilling constantly when they were not digging trenches or laying barbed wire and mine fields. The newly assigned Officers were doing their best to learn from their more experienced counterparts whilst the Regiments CO, a man prematurely aged by the war, his formerly black hair shot through with streaks of grey was Aleksandr’s guide.
“As you can see Comrade Commissar, we’ve got the men training night and day, even my Officers are helping and providing leadership when needed.”
“You’ve done well Colonel, I understand the men think very highly of you, it was you who got them out of the Minsk pocket in a fighting withdrawal after all.”
“I took them in the right direction Comrade Commissar, the men are the ones who should be praised. They didn’t break, they didn’t flee.”
Aleksandr nodded whilst Colonel Kadoshchuk regarded the young man. It was hard to judge him, he seemed to know his stuff and was not as pig headed as the previous Commissar who had been killed by a German shell during the retreat from Minsk. No. This one seemed to be willing to listen and wasn’t overly fond of the lash.
“I will make a report to headquarters when I can Comrade Colonel citing your skills and those of your men. Who knows. The 597thGuards Rifles does have a nice ring to it.”
Both men chuckled at that when in truth the last thing on their minds was medals and awards. Staying alive was far more important as was not being captured.
The heart of the defences was a low hill, crested with concrete bunkers and firing points. Buried underground and shielded by earth, concrete and the trunks of felled trees was the Regiments command post. In the immediate area was eight dug in tanks, only their turrets poking out from the earth and wood that now covered them and consisted of the following:
4 x BT-5 – 45mm cannon, 1 x mg per vehicle.
2 x T-26 – 45mm cannon, 1 x mg per vehicle.
1 x T-28 – 76mm cannon 3 x mg.
1 x KV-2 – 152mm cannon, 2 x mg.
The T-28’s crew had been rather enterprising, and with the aid of a tractor and some men from a nearby regiments motor pool had removed the two forward turrets from the ungainly tank. These were now flanking the crest of the hill near the command post, mounted on ad-hoc rotating bases powered by hand and a ‘repurposed’ truck engine. Three dozen mortars of all sizes supported the four lines of trenches, only one of which was concrete the others had been dug, mostly by hand in the frantic preparations. More trenches were still being dug and miles of barbed wire laid out. Extensive camouflage measures were being undertaken, nearby copses of trees that were not filled with guns, men or mines were stripped down to provide wood and branches to cover the reinforced fighting positions and the gun positions and tanks. Miles back was the real heavy hitters of the defensive line, dug in artillery ranging from 76mm howitzers to a handful of the big 152mm M1931s. Over the past few days more than a few hours of sleep had been disturbed as the guns pre-registered their sights.
Whilst the survivors of the 296th had been far from saddened when their Commissar had been shredded by a Fascist shell they were warming to the replacement. He’d not even shot anyone yet which had been a first.
The entire battalion was spread over the defensive ‘island’ either in the three rows of trenches, in the bunkers or in the rear with a few T-26 and BT-7 tanks to provide a counter attacking force or guard the mortars and four artillery guns. They were all bone weary, save the bastard and his tank crew (a KV-2 commander and his men), most of the time was spent reinforcing the defences, laying more mines, more meters of barbed wire, placing more obstacles but there was little chance of a rest, the Sergeants were always watching and they usually didn’t resort to threats of disciplinary matters, but had a few willing NCO’s to ‘encourage’ obedience at the end of their fists.
Down in the trenches a few heads popped up, drawn by the sound of laughter but quickly popped down again when they saw just who it was who was laughing.
“All well and good for them to laugh…they are not the ones breaking their backs filling sandbags.”
“Hah! I thought you Siberians were as tough as draft horses and didn’t complain about anything apart from being too warm Nikolai.”
“Tougher than you pansy city boys at least.”
“Fuck you.”
“No thanks, but I’ll fuck your mother.”
The small gaggle all chuckled and carried on their manual labour, most of them were survivors from the 296th and their casual attitude and way they spoke about what they were doing, about the enemy, about home was quite a shock to the younger and more indoctrinated soldiers from the 301st. Back home you didn’t complain, you didn’t call a superior a derogatory term and you just did as you was told. To see men talking freely about anything was quite a culture shock. Each Company was rotating through a mixture of training, trench digging and sandbag filling. It was backbreaking work that left the men exhausted but their morale was high and proficiency with drills and plans was rapidly improving.
Several hundred meters away the Regimental band broke into a rousing rendition of the now very popular song Katusha which elicited a few cheers across the position as well as some men singing along rather badly to the popular tune. The band was working as hard as everyone else, most of them had been assigned to the medical posts as orderlies and was helping set up triage posts. Getting together to play had been done off their own backs. It had started several days ago and no one had moved to stop it and now was a daily feature.
“A band playing whilst we work..they didn’t say anything about this in Komsomol..” A young spotty faced private said, glancing up at the band as they started belting out The Russian Revolution.
“Hah there’s a lot you need to learn boy, now keep digging, this berm is not going to build itself.”
“Yes Comrade!”
“And cut it out with comrade, we have names too. I’m Ioseph.”
“Yes Co..Ioseph.”
Some of the Frontoviks rolled their eyes and shook their heads slightly. Many didn’t want the young boys in their units, under trained and barely big enough to take the kick of a Nagant in some cases. Still they were hard workers and keen to impress their older and more experienced comrades. Up on the hill the band went into playing the new song ‘The Sacred War’ apparently there were lyrics, no one knew them so men hummed along as they worked.
Several dozen miles behind the fortifications, far from prying eyes and the tongues of those who might be tempted to desert was a gathering of the most powerful units in the Soviet army. Massed tanks and artillery support, not part of any defensive plan, the massed regiments were gathered for a general offensive. One that was (it was hoped) would shatter the German offensive and turn the tide of the war. Tank crews listened to their machines engines like a doctor would a heart whilst infantry were used as draft animals to haul boxes of ammunition forwards from depots miles back. Overhead LaGG and MiG fighters prowled, looking for Fascist reconnaissance planes. If it worked, it would be one hell of a surprise for the invaders of the Motherland
________________
May 19th Strongpoint 481
"At three hundred meters one five round volley, in your own time, carry on!”
The distinctive crack-SNAP of Nagant rifles firing filled the air, the roughly set up range was the domain of Senior Sargent Pushkin (no relation) and a few of his ‘underlings’. Through bawled commands and the application of a boot to the arse he had managed to improve the men’s rifle drills and accuracy. Whilst his habit of firing a burst from his PPD over the heads of men whilst they shot was unnerving, it worked. Many of the new recruits were less jumpy around gunfire, not enough for Senior Sargent Pushkin, but then again after surviving what he had during the retreat then anyone who had not ran through a Fascist artillery barrage was a ‘pussy’.
“Stop pulling the rifle back like it’s a girl saying ‘no’, hold onto the damn thing!”
“Estafi if I see you looking away one more time before you fire..”
“Malashenko..good shot. Don’t screw up the others though. But one shot can take out two men. The Fritz will try and help their injured, so make sure you don’t miss!”
There were a few muffled thumps from the grenade range, a few tree stumps and some straw filled dummies were good enough targets, all be it ones that didn’t shoot back. Other platoons were running around in full combat dress, even the Officers were taking part and getting yelled at along with the rest of their men and told just how shit they were pretty much at everything.
That was when the air raid siren started to howl, followed by the rapid firing of the sectors AA guns. Men scattered, diving into small slip trenches whilst scanning the skies. Thousands of feet above them a German Fw-189 rumbled along camera’s whirring as its pilots ignored the black puffs of smoke that mostly burst into being well below their high flying plane. With their Army Groups approaching the Stalin Line the Germans wanted to know as much as they could. What they missed, dozens of miles behind the defences, expertly camouflaged was a huge collection of men, tanks and guns that were waiting to be unleashed against the invaders. On the 26th they would be let loose.
_______________________________
26th of May 1942 – 0400 AM
At 0400 every gun that could reach the distant Fascist formations opened fire. Everything from 104mm howitzers firing at extreme range to the 152mm heavy guns and three massive 10 inch guns on rail mountings started blazing away. Added to this was the distinctive and eerie howl of Katusha rockets which was almost drowned out by the sounds of engines and tracks as thousands of carefully husbanded T-34 and KV-1 tanks and massed infantry support threw themselves at Army Group Centre.
Even the vaunted Luftwaffe was taken by surprise at the appearance of massed and modern YaK, MiG and LaGG fighters as well as wave after wave of IL-2 and PE-2’s filled the air. Barely over thirty kilometres away the German vanguard was broken and crushed, tank gunners raged in fear and anger as their 50mm guns bounced off the Soviet tanks at all but the closest ranges whilst the familiar and popular 37mm gun of the Infantry was worse than useless. Approaching the end of their logistical tether the Germans were caught unprepared but reacted quickly and whilst their machines were for the most part inferior their crews were better trained whilst the Soviets made the same mistakes again and again. But quantity had a quality all of its own and that’s what counted.
“Traverse right! Faster…target!”
“On!”
“Fire!”
The 50mm L60 gun barked, the brass casing dropping to the floor with a clang that was drowned out by the growl of the engine and the rumble of tracks as the Panzer III accelerated.
“Three see if you can flank him, we’ll use this copse for cover and keep his attention on us.”
The radio crackled a response
“Fire!”
The gun recoiled again, the loader slamming another AP round into the breech. Ducking behind a cratered hill the Panzer commander cursed softly. The Soviets were not supposed to have machines this good, intelligence about their main tank indicated something that was equal to a Panzer IV and based on the T-28 hull. A shattering artillery barrage had washed over his company’s position before forward scouts reported enemy Panzers. That was 30 minutes ago. Only ten minutes ago three dark green Soviet Panzers had nosed over a dried river bank and begun engaging the six German Panzers, a mix of four Panzer IIIs one Panzer IV and a Panzer-38(t).
The Russians were something new, there was a similarity to the big ‘Fortress Tanks’ with their huge blocky turrets and 152mm guns, but these had different turrets and a potent gun that had shattered the Panzer-38(t) with a hit, parts of the small Czech tank winnowing away from its hulk along with a good length of track linkage. The Soviet behemoths shrugged off the 50mm guns of the Panzer IIIs with ease, it was infuriating to watch a shot just bounce off leaving a faint mark or scrape, infuriating and terrifying.
“Three in position!”
“Driver forwards, forwards left, gunner prepare to fire.”
“Forwards!”
The Panzer lurched out from cover, one Soviet behemoth was facing them its turret slewing in their direction its two comrades were a distance off, guns vomiting an impressive blast every time they fired. Their target was about 400 meters away, the blocky turret swinging round to track them where there was a CRACK and a flash and the Soviet shook as a round gouged a chunk out of the manlet round the gun.
“This is two, engaging target!”
The company’s Panzer IV let rip with another shot from its long 75 with the same effect as the previous round, the shot hit the curved side the turret with a heavy thud leaving a bruise in the metal but little more. The big Soviets engine revved and its tracks bit as it lurched round to face this threat, its gun raising and turning as another round smacked into its turret with no visible effect before it returned fire.
The 76mm round was aimed low, slamming into the front of the hull next to the driver, the armour barely slowing the heavy shell, the blast and spall tearing the driver and loader into human offal before the ammunition caught and the German medium tank erupted in flames.
“Company withdraw! More Soviets are coming, repeat, more Soviet heavies are coming!”
German commanders could identify no schwerpunkt, no axis of attack with the Soviet offensive just a broad fronted push along the threatened sectors. Some units were broken and scattered whilst others were fighting tenaciously and managing to hold, but only just. The only good news was in the air. Although surprised by the new Soviet machines the skill of the Germans combined with their fearsome FW-190 had quickly won back air superiority and then established air supremacy, clawing Soviet planes from the sky in their hundreds. Only now were the Stuka’s and bombers making their presence felt, striking the Soviets supply lines and armour when it was on open ground. Only the Luftwaffe was preventing a rout.
The so called Great Offensive was supposed to be the first step on the road to Berlin, yet after five days of fighting the Soviet offensive had slowly ground to a halt in the face of tightening German resistance on the ground and their utter dominance in the air. The VVS had mostly been swept from the air with squadrons being utterly decimated. Their new aircraft were equal to the BF-109’s they had encountered but the new FW-190’s had clawed them from the air. A few morale raising air raids on Germany and Berlin in particular by Pe-8’s had caused some damage but most other bomber squadrons were having to be reformed, those who suffered 75% casualties were viewed as getting off lightly.
For the men of Strongpoint 481 watching the exhausted and greatly diminished forces trickle back past them was a huge blow to morale. The men had cheered themselves hoarse watching the attack go over whilst the skyline was lit up with the flash of heavy gun fire. Most had assumed that they would be joining the assault as a second wave to drive the Fascist snakes back to their lair, the news stories and reports from their Officers had said as much.
“What do you make of it Comrade Commissar?”
“In historical terms this is a ‘sally from the gates’ Comrade Colonel..what we know is that the Germans have been hit hard, if the number of prisoners we saw coming our way is true.”
“Hmm..”
“You can speak frankly comrade Colonel.”
That got a chuckle from the older man, still not use to his younger ‘watchdog’s’ somewhat odd ways.
“If the offensive was a failure and our forces are withdrawing we will be next. The offensive has bought us time.”
“I would assume the same, if we hit the fritzes hard enough they will need to re-organise their forces just like we will. “
“So it will be a race?”
“With quite the prize at the end.”
“Hmm….you was right by the way comrade Commissar.”
“Oh?”
“Yes..The 597th Guard Regiment does have a nice ring to it..we’ll need it after we’ve won here.”
“I’ll sign the request myself.”
“Please. I’d rather not be shot.”
“Don’t worry comrade Colonel, you’ve not done anything to deserve being shot. Yet.”
Colonel Kadoshchuck regarded his Commissar for a moment, the younger man’s face was deadpan and it was hard to tell if he was joking or not. That was until there was a creasing of his lips, the ghost of a smile.
“Remind me never to play poker with you after the war…” The Colonel chuckled and turned back to the command post as the air raid siren started to howl for the 4th time that evening.
_______________________________
August 17th - Strongpoint 481
Private Malashenko sat down for a moment, letting his arms rest before resuming stacking sandbags, his rifle was near at hand, they had to carry their arms where ever they went even this far ‘back’ in the Stalin Line from the front line positions. He glanced up, seeing something moving in the grey clouds a moment before the air raid siren started yowling whilst a pair of bugles started playing ‘attention’ on their horns. Running for his platoon’s position he saw aircraft, the easily recognisable shape of Stuka’s and Nazi bombers in the distance heading his way. Black puffs of smoke started dotting the overcast sky, the rapid thump of flak guns blasting away. There were cheers as German aircraft were hit and blotted from the sky or forced to turn back streaming smoke but there seemed to be no end to their numbers.
Position 481’s AA guns were firing now, rapid firing 45mm guns and the heavy thump of 76mm guns a bass percussion to the kettle drum rattle of the lighter cannons and machine guns now joining them.
There were more cheers as Soviet fighters broke through the clouds, twisting and turning through the Nazi formation, the Germans interceptors hunting them down. Then the artillery opened fire.
Safely embedded in the Stalin line were thousands of artillery pieces spread over a huge area, ranging from light 76mm howitzers all the way up to the big 152mm M1931s and the huge 203mm howitzers and to some of the youngest members of the battalion who until recently had not heard anything louder than the rumble of tractor engine or a bell ringing were almost unmanned with fear. The veterans just tightened the straps on their steel helmets and pressed deeper into the trenches waiting for the inevitable bombs and shells to start falling.
“Bloody hell what’s going on Sargent?”
“I don’t bloody know, keep your heads down the lot of you, Krastinov that means you! Get down now before you lose that pretty head of yours!”
“Comrades! Hear me!” All heads turned at that. It was the Commissar he was walking along the back of the trenches, slightly pale faced but clearly resolved.
“Comrades! The attack we knew was coming has started. The Fascist pigs are attacking once more and it is our duty to the Motherland and Comrade Stalin to hold the line and force them back! Our brothers in the air force will tear the Germans from the skies, our armoured forces will crush the Panzers under their tanks. Not one step back Comrades, today will be the day we stomp the Fascist snakes!”
“Oh shit…” someone muttered but the conscripts stood up a little straighter in their trenches. There was little love amongst them for Stalin but they did love their country and all had seen friends killed or injured in battle, perhaps now they would have a chance to turn the tables and make the Germans fall back and retreat.
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August 21st 1942 - Strongpoint 481
The ground before the trenches was a shell and splinter torn waste ground, in some places craters from bomb and shell merged into one. Trenches had collapsed burying men under avalanches of earth and grass. Of the six bunkers, four were smashed ruins, one still burned fiercely. Splintered logs used to reinforce strongpoints and trench walls were raked with rifle and machinegun bullets, looking for all the world like some great bear had dragged its claws down them. Corpses lay everywhere, the green summer uniforms of Germans now lay as dusty mounds on the earth where they had fallen, the Russians in their khaki uniforms lay amongst their defensive positions, mingled with the Germans or on the edges of craters. Smoke from burning vehicles filled the air with its acrid tang, German Panzers still billowing smoke from their turrets hatches or sides where they had been torn open. The KV-2, its massive turret buckled and torn by repeated impacts that bludgeoned the machine into submission and ruin.
The battalion had been shredded, a platoon could count itself lucky if it had more than two dozen men to its name, almost every junior Officer had been killed, dying along with their men in the huge brawl of a three day battle as the Germans threw everything they had at a narrow point of the Stalin line to breach it and press into the clear regions beyond. In some areas they had succeeded, punching through the defences all be it at horrific cost whilst at other locations like Position 481 where the defences had held. Just.
Commissar Kosagyn sat slumped on a torn sandbag, his whole body numb, ears ringing, face streaked with smoke and lined with sweat. The past three days had been a horrifying blur to the young man, on the heels of their first air raid came a heavy artillery bombardment which covered the advance of the Panzers and infantry.
Of course to the Soviets each enemy platoon was the feared and hated SS, some even said it was Hitler’s personal guard the Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler and they’d had it drummed into them that no mercy was to be expected or given. The experienced Frontoviks and raw recruits from young boy to old men had all stood up in their trenches, fighting and dying where they stood.
Kosagyn remembered one old man a conscript from Moscow beside him in the trenches, the Germans were bounding forwards, using what cover they could, mortars giving them covering fire whilst the Panzers engaged strongpoints and AT guns. The Commissar had been about to order an infantry charge, it was the only tactic he’d had drilled into him in his truncated training, none of the intricate fire and manoeuvre demonstrated by the Germans, but a straight forwards bull rush. Pistol in trembling hand Kosagyn had readied himself to lead the charge, half standing a yell on his lips when he crashed back against the muddy wall of the trench, the old Muscovite had pulled him back by the hem of his coat.
“Not yet Comrade Commissar, they have machine guns covering them we’d get cut down for no gain, here we can bleed them dry!”
The man’s actions were insubordinate and cowardly and yet…and yet it made sense. Quietly thanking God for the chance to live a little longer whilst giving a man old enough to be his father a glare the Commissar had recovered his now muddy pistol and resumed firing. The old man was long dead, killed some time on day two, the top of his head obliterated by a rifle shot as he peeked out of cover, his body one of the hundreds strewn round the smoking ruin that had been Defensive Strongpoint 481.
Now everyone seemed to sense it was close to the end. Most of the bunkers were gone, the KV-2 was ablaze, finally killed by Fascist engineers with demolition charges, the phone lines were cut, the earth trenches overrun and ammunition was low. Some Fascist Panzers pushed on past the position, leaving the infantry to mop up the ragged remains of the defenders. Compressed into a shrinking defensive perimeter using the concrete and tree trunk lined strongpoints and trenches for cover the fighting devolved to brutal short range fighting where bayonet, knife and spade were just as lethal as rifle and SMG.
At about 1400 the firing to the east had increased in tempo and violence and at around 1900 the Soviets had been amazed to see something they’d not expected to live to see. The Germans withdrawing, Infantry first and then tanks surging back from the east, their turrets facing to the rear, their sides lined with men. Little more than an hour later Soviet tanks, huge dark green machines of a type not seen before had lumbered past Point 481, accompanying the great dark machines were the familiar T-50s, accompanying the huge tanks like hunting hounds round their masters, waiting to be let off the leash.
The exhausted defenders of Point 481 had been too tired to cheer, barely able to stir themselves to search for the wounded or dead comrades.
“Commissar! Sir! Did you hear? The fascists have been driven back! Our leaders had armoured forces waiting for them beyond our lines, the Germans are retreating!”
It was some young soldier, one of the Brigadier’s cronies from the signals department. Alexsandr offered him a tired smile. “Pass the good news on Soldier, let our men know that their sacrifices and the sacrifices of their comrades were not in vain.”
Alexsandr sat back as the signalman ran off, he closed his eyes and promptly passed out from exhaustion.
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German Occupied Russia.
“What do you mean ‘barely adequate for its role’? And please speak honestly. You are not under orders or before courts martial.”
“Sir I am merely stating what I saw and what I feel. My Company got four of the new Panzers (the 3601) and we lead a local counter attack against a Soviet position that was deemed to be a threat. The new machine performed fine on the terrain and its roomy, much easier to move around in than the IV but in all other respects….it was only adequate. The gun is the same as is being fitted to the newest Panzer IV’s and our Jagdpanzers and it was fine against the new T-34 but it was not the long range killer we hoped for.”
“Please explain Captain.”
“I can’t guess the minds of the designers but the gun was built to fight the older Soviet tanks we knew about, we’d been briefed about the T-34 which now appears to be a phantom or ruse as well as the T-29 heavy tank, again another ruse. The Soviet medium that we now know is called the T-34 is worryingly resistant to 75mm gunfire. Their hull armour is sloped and this at long range seriously degraded our chances of punching through their plate without being exposed to return fire. Whilst we were able to disable them it was at medium to short ranges whilst the large tanks the KV-1 were more troublesome.
Whilst they are lumbering beasts, they have a good gun and very thick hides. Our shells were bouncing off them like…like tennis balls; all we did was leave gouges in the plate. Only at about 150 meters was we able to punch through them and that was with a flank shot.”
“And how did your machine perform?”
“There was the usual bugs with a new piece of kit..the engine kept overheating for one so we dared not go too fast or rev it too much. The armour was good, at long ranges we heard the crunch and bang of shells bouncing off the front plates and mantlet. Vision for me was superb and the layout of the turret is absolutely first class.”
“But?”
“But…it’s not the machine we hoped, to fight the new Soviets we need to be within the range where their guns can hurt us just as well as we can hurt them and I’ve heard horror stories about the ‘real’ Soviet heavies, that big fortress tank and something about a new heavy tank based on the KV-1 or the Fortress tank...it’s got the men scared Sir.”
General Boch winced at the mention of the ‘Fortress Tank’ designated the SMK. He’d not seen one himself outside of photos but he knew enough. Based on a KV-1 hull and armed with a 76mm gun as well as a 45mm gun or flame thrower the machine was heavily armoured all round. A horror story of one ramming a Panzer III into a ditch then crushing it under its tracks had spread round the army group faster than the common cold, along with it being apparently ‘immune’ to even 88mm Flak shots at common battle ranges.
“Scared?”
“Well..more nervous, we’re used to having the best, we’re the best trained tank men in the world, none can doubt that, but some feel that we’ve not got the machines to equal that now. Panzer III’s are out of their league against the new Soviet machines and Panzer IV’s until they get the long 75 are in just as much trouble. We can still out fight and out think anything the Soviets throw at us but..”
“You want better tools for the job yes?”
“Yes that’s it exactly Sir.”
Boche nodded, his aide had been writing down everything that had been said and it would be converted into a message along with other reports before being sent up the chain. To say the new Russian Panzers had come as a nasty surprise was an understatement. Whilst a few examples were found in the kessels around the Molotov line it was the thoughts of High Command that these machines were only available in limited numbers, not enough to be a threat and the new heavy tank and re-gunned Panzer IV’s would be more than adequate counters. Each Regiment had been briefed about the tanks the Italians had got off the Soviets the so called T-34 and T-29 and was ready to face and crush them as well as any of the older weaker Soviet machines. Not a single example of a ‘T-34’ and ‘T-29’ had been encountered and it now appeared more and more likely that it was all an elaborate ruse by the Russians to trick the Germans and their Allies about their tank strength and development. Even the so called ‘T-100’ tanks at the Moscow May Day Parade had not made an appearance and were probably just refitted T-35’s.
To suddenly face massed ranks of unknown machines that came at you not in Company but Regimental strength again and again, supported by heavy artillery and air attacks had been a body blow to the Army Groups confidence. Some units had crumbled under the onslaught, simply unable to halt the flow of Soviet armour. Several Romanian and Hungarian units had retreated pell-mell which opened gaps the Soviets had poured armour and infantry into, causing more withdrawals and retreats before units were cut off in kessels of their own.
“Thank you Captain, for being earnest with me and honest, I will pass your report along to the highest of Commands along with others as well as recommendations from myself and my colleagues. I will also ensure that your Regiment gets the next batch of heavy tanks.”
“Thank you General. Heil Hitler!” The Officers boots crashed together and his arm shot up in the Nazi salute.
“Heil Hitler, be safe out there Captain.”
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1992 - Western Russia.
Much of the Stalin and Molotov lines were gone, a few points of key interest, of brave holdouts against impossible odds still remained and one of those was Defensive Strongpoint 481. The coach journey to the battlefield had been less than enjoyable, the road stopped being tarmacked about two hours ago and was replaced by a dirt and gravel road leading to the battlefield. The Coach driver, a veteran of battlefield tours knew most of the pot holes so it wasn’t too bad on the passengers, a mix bag of European students, a group from a Moscow University a handful of English and American tourists and six very old and tired looking men. All six were dressed as smartly as they could afford, black trousers and a jacket, usually emblazoned with medals, ribbons and awards all sat together in silence, looking out of the window at the rolling grasslands beyond.
“A bit different from when we were last here eh?”
“Yes…the roads worse.”
“Still complaining Viktor?”
“Try riding in this thing with my hip then you’d understand.”
“Bah, your fault for being a tanker and getting rattled to bits in those coffins.”
The shorter, rather sour faced old man went to speak, anger evident in his eyes before another of the group raised his hand. “Now now comrades, do I have to bang your heads together to get you to behave?”
“Would you?”
“I’d have to, I can’t carry my Tokarev around anymore.”
“Thank god..you always were a terrible shot, more a risk to yourself than the enemy.”
All six chuckled at the (true) joke, for the most part they had been in contact since 1945, attending the May Day Parades and reunions, every year there number getting fewer and fewer but today was special and so the old soldiers travelled once more to the battlefront where they had fought and nearly died, chatting about the ‘good old days’ as well as the bad, ignoring the badly accented English of the tour guide as she droned on about the battle for the Molotov Line as if reciting it from a history book approved by the state. The reality of course was quite, quite different and for the old men it was a mercy when the coach finally halted and they could get out. Unlike that dark day 60 years ago the weather was glorious, clear blue sky and the sun beating down on the huge corn fields that surrounded the battered defences that had once been a formidable link in the defences of Soviet Russia.
Left to rot after the war the position was saved from being wrecked in 1982 and the area was classified as a War Grave. Volunteers, many of them old soldiers had helped clean the place up and clear it but had left the craters, the bunkers and places where men had fought and died intact. One new addition was a huge concrete plinth upon which sat the squat, powerful shape of a KV-3 Heavy tank. It was actually one of the tanks that had reached Point 481 during the German battle and its driver was here now, the short man with the dodgy hip, his features softening when he saw his old machine, tears forming quite unbidden.
“She looks in better condition than when I last saw her..”
“When you last saw her she was nose deep in a swamp in Poland..”
“True..stupid ass of a Commander thought we could get through…I wasn’t about to argue with a Superior.”
“What did they put you in after?”
“A T-44…not as good as the old Warhorse though.”
The six old men plodded round the ruins, reading some of the plaques and dedications to the men who had fought and died there. There were a few tears when they saw names they recognised on the wall of remembrance and the old Tanker needed a few minutes as he sat in the shade of his old ride before the ‘young’ one of the group helped him to his feet.
“Up you get you…” he said offering a hand then a small hip flask. “We’ll do our speech get the hell out of here and go to that pub we passed.”
“You’re paying?”
“Of course.”
“You always was a good man Aleksandr, no wonder your men put up with you for so long..”
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Liked the action sequences and the characterizations.