They crossed the Russian frontier and raced to the gates of Moscow. Would it be enough? 900,000 men, 10,000 pieces of artillery and heavy mortars, 3,700 tanks and assault guns along with the Luftwaffe's contribution of 2,500 aircraft. This was it. In his heart he knew that if they failed here, the war could well be lost. There was no way to replace the men and materials. Italy had been stripped even though the Allied invasion of Sicily was imminent. He mused over what the British and Americans would run into if they had to face his army on the beaches along with the defenses that were already there. . . .
One hundred miles away. Marshal Zhukov was covering the same ground with General Rokossovsky, commander of Army Central. . . . Comrade Ivanov (Stalin) ordered there must be no failure.
'We have committed everything to this battle. We are thankful the Fascist pigs do not know our man in Switzerland who has kept us so well informed on their Operation Citadel. For months now, we have made every effort to prepare the greatest trap in the history of warfare. It will make Stalingrad look like child's play.'
Pointing to the charts on the field table, Zhukov, with his peasant's face so much in contrast to the fine features of his German counterpart, ordered Rokossovsky to go over his preparations—1,337,000 men, 20,000 pieces of artillery, rocket launchers and heavy mortars, 3,306 tanks and assault guns, 2,650 aircraft.
On the central front alone they had 5,100 mines per mile of front already laid and every day there would be more. Three thousand miles of trenches and antitank ditches were dug, their defenses were in six belts, one behind the other. Each would become successively stronger if the belt in front was forced to withdraw. They would then add their strength to the belt behind them and so forth until they bled the enemy dry. Zhukov gave one of his rare smiles, showing strong yellow teeth.
'It is enough. July 5—they will come and we are ready.'
Teacher shook the others awake. Grumbling, they rolled out of their blankets, each in his own manner. Some had to take a leak, others needed a smoke to wake up. Langer sent Gus over to the mobile kitchen to get their morning rations. He had a knack for scrounging that was second to none, especially when he scared the shit out of the cooks by playing with a live grenade while he waited in a line that rapidly diminished when they saw him take the pin out and then reinsert it again and again, almost dropping the damned thing more than once. Gus did indeed have a way about him. For fun, he would set a concussion grenade on top of his steel helmet and stand there while it exploded. Knowing, as the old timers did, that explosives follow the line of least resistance and ninety-eight percent of the blast effect went straight up from the steel helmet, the worst he got was a ringing in the ears.
The next three days were spent in frantic preparations. Through intermittent rains, they familiarized themselves with their new home on tracks and its idiosyncrasies, painting the tank an off yellow and green camouflage pattern that would blend in well with the surrounding countryside. Extra tracks were placed on the turret sides and the ammo holders filled to capacity with extra 75 mms stacked by the driver along with their personal weapons, ready in case they had to unass the Panther in a hurry.
The steel leviathan weighed in at forty-five and one-half tons with a range of 110 road miles or half that cross country. It carried a long 75 with 79 rounds of ammo and 4,500 rounds of machine-gun ammo for the two MG-34s. Gus fell in love with the engine, a Maybach HL 230 twelve-cylinder diesel with 700 hp.
'This fucker's a beauty!' he cried out joyfully, slapping the side of the tank.
'At last we have something we can chew those damned T-34s up with. This little toy could take Moscow all by itself.'
The night of the fourth they moved to their jump-off positions while a flight of Ju-88s and ME-109s buzzed the front in order to cover the track and engine noises. Quickly they camouflaged their tanks with brush and netting, waiting for the dawn while their officers received their battle orders and made last-minute changes. Midnight passed. It was 5 July, and the nearest thing to Armageddon the world had ever known was about to be born. . . .
First light broke hot and clear, a portent of the hell to come. The Soviet 17th Air Army was already crossing the lines separating the protagonists, heading to make a preemptive strike on the German air bases to the rear and destroy the bulk of the Luftwaffe aircraft while still on the ground, but the gods of war smiled on the Germans and one in particular screwed up the Russian plan.
FREYA, the name for the radar units stationed at the German airfields, picked up the incoming Soviets in time to alert their fighters. From General Siedeman's headquarters, the order went out to forget the planned scheduling and take off immediately. Scramble now and get everything that could fly in the air and off the vulnerable fields. Fighter engines screamed, their special whines like German eagles, airborne, climbing high to get above the confident Soviet squadrons who thought they were approaching sleeping bases. The Russian bombers were flying at 10,000 feet as the first wave of German fighters fell on them like hunting falcons from the heights, striking through the formations and breaking them up in panic, sending plane after plane crashing in flames to the earth. The MIG and Yak fighters did their best to protect their lumbering bigger brothers, but the altitude of the bombers left them at a disadvantage in dealing with the Fw-190s and ME-109s that raced around them, blasting them from the sky. In the first hour, the Soviets lost 120 aircraft and their even more precious crews as hundreds of German fighters hurled themselves with reckless abandon at everything that wore a red star. Before the day was over, another 300 would be added to the tally of Soviet losses, first blood to the Iron Cross.
Freya, the Nordic goddess of love and beauty, who also claimed half of those who fell on the field of battle for her own, served her people well this day.
The battle of Kursk was on; from all fronts came the order to attack. As volleys of artillery and mortar fire laid down barrages that made the earth erupt, trying to blast open a path for the armored beasts to race through.
CHAPTER THREE
Into the maelstrom of smoke, dust and flames, the tanks rumbled, engines straining, following the lines prepared by the engineers that night when they crept in to clear paths through the mine fields. The monstrous symphony of modern warfare had begun with an overture to death.
Gus laughed as he gunned the engine and ground a slit trench full of Russians into pulp. Locking one tread, the Panther pivoted, grinding the men beneath the threads into the dirt. A Tiger tank to the left exploded in a gout of black oily smoke as it hit an antitank mine. The sappers had missed this one. The crew bailed out of the hatches, only to be cut down by machine-gun fire, the Panzer grenadiers following in their wake, spread out, several falling to their faces as Ivan fought back with the tenacity of the Russian bear.
Teacher called for targets and Langer swung the turret, checking the ring dial on the traverse indicator which showed him the relationship of the turret to the hull, bunker four hundred meters, load with HE. Teacher sighted. 'Got it.'
The recoil of the 75 rocked the Panther back on its suspension system. The front of the Soviet bunker erupted and several Russians ran from the back entrance followed by the stitching tracks of the MG-34 hull gun. The tracks overran two of the Russians and walked back and forth over their bodies. Even from this distance the dust puffing up from their uniforms where the bullets struck was easily visible. A gap in the Russian lines was made and the
