hissed Alte. 'Now perhaps you'll bloody get a move on.'
Porta hunched a shoulder indifferently, but none the less the tank started up again. I think we all let out sighs of relief. Porta was the best driver in the whole regiment, and if anyone could get us safely back, he could. A blood-chilling scream ripped the air as we moved on our way. There was a moment's stillness. Then the Legionnaire hunched a shoulder.
'Someone caught underneath,' he said, laconically.
We rolled on across the steppes, now crunching our way through a sea of ruins, fallen masonry, broken glass, now ploughing across abandoned trenches, through shellholes and craters. Far ahead of us were the other Tigers. Only Barcelona was at our side, his own tank submerged beneath a horde of wounded infantrymen.
Alte kept muttering beneath his breath. We caught the word 'bridge', and we knew what was running through his mind. There was a certain bridge we had to cross, to reach the other side of the river. Much depended on whether we or the Russians reached it first.
A fresh obstacle came our way: Barcelona's tank ran into a patch of marshy ground and was soon completely bogged down. We passed him a cable, but as we were only able to pull crossways, and not straight ahead, it was of very little use. Even as we watched, the heavy tank sank lower in the mud, and Mercedes, when called up on the radio and informed of the situ ation, gave orders that it should be abandoned and destroyed. Barcelona and his crew were installed with us and we set off again, once more with a mass of bodies clinging to every foothold on the exterior of the tank.
We ran into a Russian battery and were upon it before they had time to scatter themselves. We caught only a glimpse of horrified faces, contorted with fear, as we plunged our way through the centre of them.
Shortly afterwards, it was our turn to start trembling: the tank began losing speed. Porta and Little John worked feverishly, to no avail. The distance between us and the rest of the Tigers widened still further.
'What the hell's happening?' we demanded, made irritable and unreasoning through sheer terror at our likely predicament.
'Get it moving, for Chrissake!' 'I'm not a bleeding magician! ' snarled Porta.
Alte called up Lt. Ohlsen on the radio: no reply. We saw the last of our fellow tanks disappear over the brow of a hill, far ahead of us. It seemed unlikely, now, that we should ever reach the bridge... And then, suddenly, the motor started up again. It coughed and spluttered, cut out altogether, came back to life. The tank jerked forward. For the umpteenth time, Porta had worked a miracle. We showered him with extravagant praise and he merely spat contemptuously and changed gear.
'We are heroes,' announced Little John. 'It is our duty to die a hero's death... Heil Adolf! What luck for you that we were born at this hour . What luck for us that we're still alive to fight another bleeding day.'
'What the flaming hell are we fighting for, anyway?' grumbled Barcelona, who was crouching in a corner to be out of our way.
'Don't ask damn fool questions,' advised Alte.
In a cloud of dust, we reached the bridge. It was still intact, guarded by a section of Russian infantry. We didn't wait to exchange pleasantries, we literally drove through and over them. Two daring spirits hurled themselves on to the front of the tank: one had an arm torn off, and our passengers dealt with the other.
Across the bridge, we had to pass through a village that was heavily defended. Somehow we managed to survive constant barrage from the enemy anti-tank guns, but judging from the shrieks and yells, many of those on the outside must have suffered appallingly. There was nothing we could do for them.
Outside the village we came face to face with a T.34. The first we knew was when a shell exploded on the armour-plating on the forefront of the tank. Fortunately it was not of sufficient strength to harm us, but the remainder of our passengers were
Porta hunched a shoulder indifferently, but none the less the tank started up again. I think we all let out sighs of relief. Porta was the best driver in the whole regiment, and if anyone could get us safely back, he could. A blood-chilling scream ripped the air as we moved on our way. There was a moment's stillness. Then the Legionnaire hunched a shoulder.
'Someone caught underneath,' he said, laconically.
We rolled on across the steppes, now crunching our way through a sea of ruins, fallen masonry, broken glass, now ploughing across abandoned trenches, through shellholes and craters. Far ahead of us were the other Tigers. Only Barcelona was at our side, his own tank submerged beneath a horde of wounded infantrymen.
Alte kept muttering beneath his breath. We caught the word 'bridge', and we knew what was running through his mind. There was a certain bridge we had to cross, to reach the other side of the river. Much depended on whether we or the Russians reached it first.
A fresh obstacle came our way: Barcelona's tank ran into a patch of marshy ground and was soon completely bogged down. We passed him a cable, but as we were only able to pull crossways, and not straight ahead, it was of very little use. Even as we watched, the heavy tank sank lower in the mud, and Mercedes, when called up on the radio and informed of the situ ation, gave orders that it should be abandoned and destroyed. Barcelona and his crew were installed with us and we set off again, once more with a mass of bodies clinging to every foothold on the exterior of the tank.
We ran into a Russian battery and were upon it before they had time to scatter themselves. We caught only a glimpse of horrified faces, contorted with fear, as we plunged our way through the centre of them.
Shortly afterwards, it was our turn to start trembling: the tank began losing speed. Porta and Little John worked feverishly, to no avail. The distance between us and the rest of the Tigers widened still further.
'What the hell's happening?' we demanded, made irritable and unreasoning through sheer terror at our likely predicament.
'Get it moving, for Chrissake!' 'I'm not a bleeding magician! ' snarled Porta.
Alte called up Lt. Ohlsen on the radio: no reply. We saw the last of our fellow tanks disappear over the brow of a hill, far ahead of us. It seemed unlikely, now, that we should ever reach the bridge... And then, suddenly, the motor started up again. It coughed and spluttered, cut out altogether, came back to life. The tank jerked forward. For the umpteenth time, Porta had worked a miracle. We showered him with extravagant praise and he merely spat contemptuously and changed gear.
'We are heroes,' announced Little John. 'It is our duty to die a hero's death... Heil Adolf! What luck for you that we were born at this hour . What luck for us that we're still alive to fight another bleeding day.'
'What the flaming hell are we fighting for, anyway?' grumbled Barcelona, who was crouching in a corner to be out of our way.
'Don't ask damn fool questions,' advised Alte.
In a cloud of dust, we reached the bridge. It was still intact, guarded by a section of Russian infantry. We didn't wait to exchange pleasantries, we literally drove through and over them. Two daring spirits hurled themselves on to the front of the tank: one had an arm torn off, and our passengers dealt with the other.
Across the bridge, we had to pass through a village that was heavily defended. Somehow we managed to survive constant barrage from the enemy anti-tank guns, but judging from the shrieks and yells, many of those on the outside must have suffered appallingly. There was nothing we could do for them.
Outside the village we came face to face with a T.34. The first we knew was when a shell exploded on the armour-plating on the forefront of the tank. Fortunately it was not of sufficient strength to harm us, but the remainder of our passengers were
Similar Books
