suffocate them. Then one of the newbies in the unit started quietly rattling with his improperly carried weapons. That changed the situation instantly. The Germans picked up the sound and opened fire. First a rifle, then machine-guns. The Russian infantry hunched up and started to run forward; praying their feet wouldn’t break the crust on the snow and leave them floundering. Shulgin could see only the back-pack of the man in front.
The cries of “Forward!” were already ringing through the trees. Shulgin had no idea how long he had been running forward. It could have been a second; it could have been an hour for all he knew.
He’d reached the German foxholes scraped in the snow and dropped flat into the largest of them. A firm grip on his rifle, butt tucked firmly into his shoulder. Bolt handle held between thumb and forefinger, little finger around the trigger. Not a grip taught by the Russian Army but a trick shown to them by the Canadian Sergeant-Major who’d instructed them in the workings of the Lee-Enfield. Shulgin flipped the bolt forward and back, one smooth action and squeezed the trigger with his little finger. Almost instantly he was operating the bolt again, blessing the smooth speed of the Lee action against the sticky roughness of the Mosin-Nagant. Ten aimed shots went out, then the magazine was empty. He pushed the catch that released it and inserted a loaded magazine for another ten shots.
All along the rifle line, the other infantrymen were doing the same. The rapid rifle fire cut down the fascists as they tried to counterattack their lost positions. The squad machine guns opened up, spraying the fascists and sending them tumbling over in chaos. “Forward!” Shulgin cried out, without even realizing it. They followed up the shattered fascist counter-attack. He and his men were drove through the woods, pushing the fascists back, faster and faster. The troops that were preparing for their own attack were caught out of position and at a disadvantage. Even if they recovered from this blow, any attack they launched would be a weak and feeble thing compared with the original plan.
Smoke filled the woods. The world seemed full of explosions, shooting, the crash of grenades going off. In Shulgin’s eyes, the whole battlefield was littered with people. Some were motionless, others convulsing from pain. Then, something hit him from the side, sending him flying through the air. He tried to get up but his foot turned under him. The agonizing wrench seemed to turn his whole leg to jelly. He couldn’t even move to get back to where the medical unit was. He started to crawl back but stopped.
“What the hell are you doing here? Advance, coward. Good men are dying because you skulk behind a tree.”
“My foot; it’s wounded. I can’t walk.”
“What wound?” Her voice was scornful. Nevertheless, her fingers felt his ankle, none too gently. “Oh, I see. A dislocation. Well, I can fix that.”
The aid woman grabbed his ankle. Shulgin expecting her to bandage or splint it. Instead, she just wrenched hard and the joint snapped back into place. Shulgin screamed, then let fly with a stream of curses. He’d never guessed he knew such language, let alone use it. The aid woman shook her head and crawled away to try and find other wounded to treat.
He’d scurried forward. His ankle still felt like fire but at least the shooting pain and weakness had gone. The Russian troops were getting artillery support now that surprise had gone. The shells howling over their heads to the German positions beyond. By the time Shulgin had rejoined his company, they had been joined by several 57mm antitank guns Somehow the crews had manhandled the heavy weapons through the trees and into position. His company commander waved him over. Their company had lost so many men they had been assigned to protect the guns rather than hold a section of the line. The good news was that the gunners had brought some extra Degtyarev light machine-guns with them. That would make up for the casualties they had taken.
“Bratya! The fascists will be counter-attacking soon so we can all make sure my watch is set right!” There was a burst of laughter from the troops. Every veteran knew that the fascists took exactly 30 minutes to come to their senses and organize a counter-attack; not a second more or less. “Don’t forget what we are here for! We cannot hold without these guns. We must stop the fascist beasts from getting close to the guns. If we protect the artillerists, they will protect us from the tanks and half-tracks. Machine-gunners, cut the infantry off the tanks. The tanks will try and destroy our machine guns first. If we can get rid of the infantry, the artillerists will see to the tanks. If every man does his duty, we will hold!”
Shulgin took his place in the trench, his rifle ready and waiting. Another change from the old days. Back in ‘42 he’d been taught to dig one- or two-man foxholes, laid out in platoon formations. The problem was that they collapsed under fire. Worse, the men in them were on their own. They were completely isolated unable to hear or see the orders. That had made leadership and command almost impossible. Every man believed the others were already dead or retreating, that he was the only person left alive. Then it seemed that enemies were all shooting just at him. So now the rule was to dig trenches, full depth if there was time, half depth if there was not. But every man could see his comrades and they could see him. A man’s spirit might fail if he was on his own, but to show cowardice when one’s comrades were watching? Impossible!
“Here they come!” Tovarish Major called out. Sure enough, it had been 30 minutes to the second. It was obvious from the strong rumble of explosions that the attack on the frontline had started. The sounds of explosions drew closer, and was joined by a massive roar of engines. That meant the enemy tanks were coming. Shulgin saw the forward security pickets appearing at the ridge and running towards the anti-tank guns. They ran to the company commander, explained something to him and the order went out. “Prepare for the tank attack!” There were no drugs in the 161st. The troops were in their half-trenches. The artillerists tried to camouflage their guns with branches, mud anything they could find.
At that moment some people in Russian khaki appeared on the ridge. They ran towards the guns as fast as their legs would carry them. To Shulgin that meant just one thing. The front line was completely broken and an avalanche of tanks and Panzergrenadiers was about to descend on them. The artillerists were waiting by their guns, the barrels were trained along the ridge, ready for the first vehicles to cross. They didn’t have to wait long. Fascist tanks, at least ten of them, crossed the ridgeline and rolled forward at high speed. They fired their machine-guns at the fleeing infantry. Shulgin identified them.
Shulgin had to remind himself of that. He wanted to flee, his legs kept trying to run but he forced himself to remain still. Then two loud explosions as the fascist tanks hit some mines. An engineer platoon had hastily laid them while the infantry were digging in.
More shots from the 57s; return fire from the 75s in the tanks. Shulgin and the infantry stayed down. They had to let the tanks pass through their positions and stop the Panzergrenadiers before they could get to the artillerists. There was one small problem with that plan. It was such a minor problem he was sure it had escaped those of higher rank who were paid to think on such things. The problem was that the tank was made of steel, and infantrymen were not. It wasn’t impossible to knock out the tanks with grenades and satchel charges, but it was even harder escape afterwards. Even if they disabled a tank, that didn’t end the matter. The crew might not
