breed a special Aryan louse just intelligent enough to lift its front legs in the Nazi salute if Adolf should happen to pass by. Heide walked off in disgust when this theory was promulgated. The Old Man wakes Tiny and informs him of the fortune he has running around on him. He manages to catch three, but the fourth, and largest, specimen drops onto Porta’s neck. Naturally, he immediately declares it his personal property. They pin them to the rubber of the periscope mounting, ready to hand over when they run across the medical orderly.
A colossal orange fire-ball springs upwards with unbelievable force from the bushes close to the leading P-IV. The Panzer infantry throw themselves from the vehicles and take cover. With frightened eyes and hammering hearts they wait for death. An automatic cannon sprays the terrain. 20 mm projectiles ricochet from the steel sides of the tanks. A great wall of fire rises up in front of us. A flaming roller-curtain rolling the wrong way. It comes from the woods, shoots skyward in thousands of coruscating colour nuances, bends forward, and falls in our direction.
‘Stalin Organ,’ mumbles Heide frightenedly, and ducks reflexively under the Funker-MG. 6
In a long-drawn horrifying thunder the rockets fall. Buildings are literally shaved off the face of the earth.
‘Panzer, forward march!’ snarls a hoarse voice through the speaker. But before the drivers can get into gear, the next salvo falls.
Porta speeds up his motor. We burst forward through mud and water. The Maybach screams at full power. Tracks whip at the mud, throwing great clods of earth high into the air.
In Spas-Demensk the streets are all ablaze. As we pass a large house the roof falls inwards and a rain of sparks and burning wood is thrown out over the Panzer column. A piece of burning wood falls through the hatch of our tank and sets fire to a pack. A sugar factory burns with a blinding white flame. Immediately after we have passed it a sugar-tank explodes and sprays glowing sugar far and wide. A P-III explodes right in the middle of the boiling mass.
The Panzer column halts for a moment and the guns roar. Burst-flames spring up everywhere. Artillery, grenade-throwers, machine-guns and tanks in a hell of death and destruction.
Shovels and picks ring. The wide tracks scream deafeningly. Tanks move slowly forward through fallen walls and twisted girders. Thick strangling smoke covers them.
The forward units guide us by wireless. No other army in the world is so well-trained in keeping contact as is the German. We even maintain contact with the heavy artillery far behind us. Our 75 mm guns cannot touch the giant Russian KW-2s, and our tactic is to hang on to them, worry them, smash their tracks until they cannot move, and then call on the heavy artillery and direct its fire by wireless until the giant is smashed.
No. 1. Battalion is in contact with the enemy trenches and PAK. Hordes of blood-spattered soldiers rush past us on the road. Our infantry has already suffered terrible losses.
Step by step we move forward. Porta takes his cue from the exhaust flame of the lead-tank. A frightful explosion shatters a P-III. It lights up with a blueish flame, then breaks up and disappears in a coal-black blanket of smoke. Trails of tracer hasten questingly towards the enemy position.
A BT-6 7 comes charging out from a side-road. It shoots up over an earthwork into the air and lands again with a deafening crash ramming a P-III and turning it on its side. It spins like a top and makes for us.
I just manage to catch it in the periscope and fire without aiming. Our shell bursts on the turret in a shower of sparks. With a crash both tanks ram one another, and we tumble around inside our vehicle.
The Old Man tears open the hatch and pops up simultaneously with the commander of the BT-6. The Old Man is quickest. He fires first. Tiny springs from the side door with an S-mine clutched in his hands. He scrambles across the tanks and lobs
A colossal orange fire-ball springs upwards with unbelievable force from the bushes close to the leading P-IV. The Panzer infantry throw themselves from the vehicles and take cover. With frightened eyes and hammering hearts they wait for death. An automatic cannon sprays the terrain. 20 mm projectiles ricochet from the steel sides of the tanks. A great wall of fire rises up in front of us. A flaming roller-curtain rolling the wrong way. It comes from the woods, shoots skyward in thousands of coruscating colour nuances, bends forward, and falls in our direction.
‘Stalin Organ,’ mumbles Heide frightenedly, and ducks reflexively under the Funker-MG. 6
In a long-drawn horrifying thunder the rockets fall. Buildings are literally shaved off the face of the earth.
‘Panzer, forward march!’ snarls a hoarse voice through the speaker. But before the drivers can get into gear, the next salvo falls.
Porta speeds up his motor. We burst forward through mud and water. The Maybach screams at full power. Tracks whip at the mud, throwing great clods of earth high into the air.
In Spas-Demensk the streets are all ablaze. As we pass a large house the roof falls inwards and a rain of sparks and burning wood is thrown out over the Panzer column. A piece of burning wood falls through the hatch of our tank and sets fire to a pack. A sugar factory burns with a blinding white flame. Immediately after we have passed it a sugar-tank explodes and sprays glowing sugar far and wide. A P-III explodes right in the middle of the boiling mass.
The Panzer column halts for a moment and the guns roar. Burst-flames spring up everywhere. Artillery, grenade-throwers, machine-guns and tanks in a hell of death and destruction.
Shovels and picks ring. The wide tracks scream deafeningly. Tanks move slowly forward through fallen walls and twisted girders. Thick strangling smoke covers them.
The forward units guide us by wireless. No other army in the world is so well-trained in keeping contact as is the German. We even maintain contact with the heavy artillery far behind us. Our 75 mm guns cannot touch the giant Russian KW-2s, and our tactic is to hang on to them, worry them, smash their tracks until they cannot move, and then call on the heavy artillery and direct its fire by wireless until the giant is smashed.
No. 1. Battalion is in contact with the enemy trenches and PAK. Hordes of blood-spattered soldiers rush past us on the road. Our infantry has already suffered terrible losses.
Step by step we move forward. Porta takes his cue from the exhaust flame of the lead-tank. A frightful explosion shatters a P-III. It lights up with a blueish flame, then breaks up and disappears in a coal-black blanket of smoke. Trails of tracer hasten questingly towards the enemy position.
A BT-6 7 comes charging out from a side-road. It shoots up over an earthwork into the air and lands again with a deafening crash ramming a P-III and turning it on its side. It spins like a top and makes for us.
I just manage to catch it in the periscope and fire without aiming. Our shell bursts on the turret in a shower of sparks. With a crash both tanks ram one another, and we tumble around inside our vehicle.
The Old Man tears open the hatch and pops up simultaneously with the commander of the BT-6. The Old Man is quickest. He fires first. Tiny springs from the side door with an S-mine clutched in his hands. He scrambles across the tanks and lobs
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