Winter Warriors

abandon the immobilized tank, they might stay and continue to fight. That was why the order had come down. “You should always burn the tank.”

The remaining tanks were almost on them. The 57s fired to the end, Shulgin could see one gun, its crew slumped around it. The artillerists had fought their gun to the muzzle, until they’d been cut down by a shell from a tank. One of the fascist tanks was very close. For a moment, Shulgin thought he was dreaming because he saw two members of the dead crew come to life. Their gun had been loaded and they’d been waiting their chance. It wasn’t only fascist tankers who could stay at their post and continue to fight. The armor-piercing shot from the 57mm smacked into the side of the tank, just under the turret. There was a split second of silence then the tank erupted in an explosion. Smoke and flame poured out of every hatch, every port in the armor. Panzer grenadiers were all over one gun crew, the artillerists were fighting back with pistols, clubs, anything that came to hand. They fought their gun to the muzzle and beyond so that the fascists could not claim they’d captured a Russian gun while a member of its crew still lived.

Shulgin had been firing his rifle on remote control. His thumb and forefinger worked the bolt, his little finger squeezed the trigger. He’d run out of pre-loaded magazines and was loading from stripper clips, the same way his old three-line rifle had been loaded. Another tank was burning in front of him. The Company Commander was beside him, clapping him on the back.

“Well done Bratischka. A well thrown grenade indeed!”

Shulgin shook his head, he couldn’t remember throwing grenade at that tank. All he could remember was firing his rifle at the panzer-grenadiers surrounding the 57mm. Perhaps the man who had thrown the grenade was dead and command wanted living heroes, not dead ones.

“Men, fall back. Our work here is done. Help the artillerists with their guns.”

The words made no sense. Shulgin looked around. The fascists had fallen back. They’d nearly made it through but not quite. Six tanks knocked out, and three half tracks burned. Many figures in gray spread around the Russian position; many figures in Russian khaki as well. Shulgin went over to the gun whose crew had fought the fascists hand-to-hand around the barrel. Only three were left.

“Tovarish artillerist, let me help you with your gun.”

They nodded, dumbly, still in shock at the ferocity of the fight. In the gloom of the near-night, the survivors of the Russian force started manhandling the anti-tank guns back to their start line. Falling back before the fascist artillery could pound them in their positions.

“Tovarish Shulgin, I must inform you that Sasha has been killed. I wish you to take his place.” The Company Commander looked tired and gray. Shulgin looked around. As far as he could see, the company was reduced to 10 tol2 soldiers and only one of the lieutenants still lived. Why? What had this attack achieved, they ‘d seized the ridge, then just given it up? It didn’t make sense. His company had been chewed up again, for nothing. He shook his head sadly, they’d advanced this evening, he’d thought he was a few steps closer to his home in Kineshma on the Volga but now they were back where they’d started.

The Company Commander looked at his new Sergeant Major and knew just what was running through the man’s mind. It was so easy to explain in a classroom. A spoiling attack, one that pinned down an enemy unit, bloodied it so it wouldn’t be able to fight somewhere else. A fascist plan ruined, their units wrong- footed. So easy to say in a classroom. How to tell it to a man who was helping push an anti-tank gun because not enough of its crew were left alive to do it for themselves? The Company Commander lead the way back through the darkening woods in silence because he lacked the words to explain what they’d achieved this evening. He didn’t think the words existed, not in any book a man might want to read.

Curly Battery B, US Navy 5th Artillery Battalion, Kola Peninsula.

“Early for dusk?” Commander James Perdue spoke cautiously. The darkening sky seemed threatening somehow. It shouldn’t have; the snow had finally stopped and there was but a light sprinkling still coming down. It was the clouds that did it. The setting sun was between them and the ground so the light reflected off the overcast, drenching everything in a sinister yellow glow.

“It’s those clouds.” Captain Walker McKay confirmed it. “They’re bringing down the dusk a whole hour early. At least they’ll keep the warmth in.”

That was one of the lessons of the Kola Peninsula. A clear night was incredibly beautiful, the stars shone brilliantly, the moon seemed larger than it should — but the same clear, dry air sent the temperature plummeting downwards to depths that were killing cold. A clouded night was better, even if one couldn’t admire the stars.

Perdue looked around again. The Russian ASTAC work crews were already clearing the tracks of the last splattering of snow. The Allied Strategic Transport Administration Committee had been one of the first organizations founded when the Americans had started to arrive in Russia. Supplies that were desperately needed on the front had been piling up in Vladivostok instead. The Americans wanted to move them and were prepared to do whatever it took to get the supplies shifted. So were the Russians. The problem had been coordinating the two. ASTAC had grown as a result; an organization flung together out of American, Russian and Indian transport experts to make sure the railways, ports and Air Bridge worked to maximum efficiency. The Americans had been shipping in track, rolling stock and traffic management expertise. The Indians had built the Afghan and Persian railways. The Russians had put in the backbreaking labor to keep everything running.

It was something that left the Americans quietly in awe, the grim, silent determination of the Russians that they would not be beaten. Not by the weather. Not by the Germans. Not by anybody or anything. Quietly, at night, the American officers asked themselves one question about their allies. How could the Germans have thought that these people would ever give up? Even after the frightful battering they had taken in 1941 and 1942, the Russians had fought on; on the front lines, deep in their own rear areas to produce the tools their army needed, deep in the enemy rear as partisans. The work crews here had labored with that same grim determination. They were supposed to keep the tracks clear for the great guns to use, and they were going to do just that.

Captain McKay had already left Curly and was well on his way towards Moe 400 yards away when the air raid sirens went off. At first Perdue thought it was the siren warning of an outbound shoot or inbound artillery fire so rare was the air raid warning. It took a second or two for the wailing’s real identity to sink in. By then, muscle memory had taken over and he was running for the shelter of Curly’s locomotive. He’d just made it when four Focke-Wulf 190s swept over the hill, their wingtips almost touching, their noses and wings sparkled with the flashes of their cannon and machine guns.

Almost as soon as they had appeared, the twin 40mm guns that surrounded the railway artillery battalion opened up. Twelve mounts, two one each train, six on the ground surrounding the site, all with on-mount radar fire control. German fighter-bomber tactics were different from American. American pilots would have gone for the antiaircraft guns first and come back for the trains. The Germans made a straight line for their primary targets, the three railway gun trains.

Perdue heard the concussion of the aircraft bombs going off. Eleven hundred pounders? Sounded like it. Then the crash was drowned out by a rippling, tearing noise. He knew what that was. German aircraft carried a container was filled with hundreds of two-pound fragmentation bombs. They’d be released at low level and would shred anything not under cover. Perdue flinched and tried to squeeze himself deeper under the protective bulk of the locomotive. Then, the crackle of bombs and the roar of the engines was gone and there was a strange, eerie silence. At last it was broken by the wail of the “all clear.”

He got up, looking around at the sight of the artillery unit. It didn’t seem too bad. A lot of smoke and obviously some fires somewhere, but not so bad.

“Sir, Commander, Sir.” One of the young Lieutenants was gasping for breath. “Captain McKay is dead. They got him in the open. Your orders, Sir?”

Perdue looked at him. “Get me a status report now. I want to know the exact condition of each of our guns. And their trains.”

Perdue didn’t actually know whether he was in command or not. With Captain McKay dead the command devolved upon the senior gun commander. That would be Commander Dale with Larry. Somebody had to do something though, somebody had to be in charge and Dale could always take over later.

“Sir, Larry’s locomotive took a direct hit, it’s gone. Commander Dale is missing.” Well, that solved that. “The railway lines have been torn up. It looks like the 190s carried