Last Citadel

Dimitri spit again into the red bog beneath his boots. Enough, he thought. He shifted the T-34 into gear and mashed the accelerator. Let’s shake these bloody hands.

The German commander’s face left his binoculars, not ignoring Dimitri now.

* * * *

1014 hours

Luis believed only for the first second that the loco Russian was leaving.

The T-34’s treads spun, again with that unlikely acceleration, and the tank with the dead turret turned in to the rain.

Then the Russian swerved back at the Tiger. He angled to the right, racing to stay ahead of the Tiger’s turning cannon.

Balthasar’s voice bit through the engine clamor.

‘What’s he doing?’

The gunner had finally gone urgent. Luis fought to keep panic out of his own throat. He needed to give an order, but confusion and dismay delayed him. He was divided in half: one Red tank drew a bead on him from four hundred meters off; another bore in crazily from a hundred meters away. Something wasn’t fair here, the mala suerte. He felt like he’d stepped in a hornet’s nest, why were they coming after him like this? These two madmen working in tandem, why?

Luis found his voice. Only a moment had passed, but all that remained was moments.

‘Gunner, stay on target.’

The Tiger’s turret continued to rotate clockwise around Luis. The T-34

out there with the live cannon had to be handled first.

‘Driver, keep backing, keep turning!’

‘Ja’

The damage to the starboard bogeys was bad but no worse than the port wheels. The Tiger could still stumble along slowly, could still get out of this valley. But there was nothing Luis could do to avoid this crazy T- 34

closing in. He could have Balthasar try to shoot him down, but that would delay dealing with the other, more dangerous Red tank. The Russian driver continued to skid around to the right, stubbornly staying in front of the pivoting Tiger. With every meter, the Russian tightened his course.

Luis could not use binoculars to check on the shooting T-34 out there in the mist, he had to cut his eyes back and forth between the two attackers.

Across the sunflower field, the shooter’s power was down; he was aiming at the retreating Tiger manually. Balthasar, with all his hydraulics running, ought to be able to fix on the Russian gunner first, if Luis could keep everyone calm.

What to do with this charging cabron? Kill him, too.

‘Bow gunner!’

‘Ja!’

‘Aim at the driver’s hatch!’

The machine-gun in the Tiger’s glacis plate added its bursts to the rising din of those desperate seconds. Bullets scorched out of the ball-mounted barrel, tattooing against the wheeling T-34. The rounds ricocheted, striking sparks from the armor. The Russian tank was too much broadside for the bow gunner to have a shot into the open driver’s hatch.

The Russian bobbed and weaved and drew closer, still running ahead of Balthasar’s traversing turret. Luis shook his head at what he saw: this damned driver was only seventy-five meters away now and gaining speed, insanity! What is he doing? I’m simply going to kill the shooter’s tank -

again! - then I’m going to kill him! What is he doing? Why? Something, something is wrong.

He tore his gaze from the charging tank to glance down the length of the Tiger’s cannon. Across the valley the shooter would be in Balthasar’s sights in moments. Just fifteen more degrees clockwise. Come on, Luis urged. His thin chest tightened. Come on! He couldn’t determine through the haze if the Red gunner had them in his own sights yet. But he had no time left to focus on the shooter. Here came the other one.

The speeding Russian tank leveled out, no more dodges marred his approach. He charged straight in, on a diagonal at the Tiger’s starboard fender. The angle from the right was too sharp, he was beyond the bow gunner’s reach. Luis heard the crazy driver pop his clutch and shift gears, hitting full stride.

‘Driver!’ Luis hollered, but he had no orders. Someone, several voices, screamed, ‘Look out! He’s… !’

He’s what? Luis clenched his hands on the cupola rim, bracing for the impact. His mind raced, fast as the charging T-34. He’s what? Going to ram us? And seconds after the minor shock of it we’re still going to blow up his damned mate across the field; then we’re going to pull back from the collision, depress Balthasar’s cannon and kill him. What the hell is he… ?

In the last mote of time, before the final meter between the T-34 and the Tiger slammed shut, Luis understood.

He’s not crazy. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

The Russian hit hard. He rammed the middle of his glacis plate into the Tiger’s right-hand fender. Luis was jolted but his massive tank held its ground, it weighed more than twice the T-34.

Luis roared, ‘Back! Keep backing!’

The Tiger tried to pull away from the Russian, the huge Maybach engine strained to revolve the tracks over injured wheels. The screech of metal against metal was excruciating. The T-34 had hit with so much speed and momentum it lodged itself against the Tiger’s starboard drive sprocket.

The right side of the Tiger was tangled and numbed.