Typhoon over Moscow

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This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblence to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

© 2005 Thomas Broderick. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 06/26/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4208-0179-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4208-0180-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2004098718

Contents

Author’s Note

Introduction

Chapter One June 23, 1941, 63rd Fortified Region, East of Nowogrudek, USSR

Chapter Two City of Tula, USSR

Chapter Three Kharkov, USSR, July 1941

Chapter Four October 2, 1941, Operation Typhoon

Chapter Five October 1941, East of Mozhaisk Defensive Line

Chapter Six Tiny German Airstrip, West of Vyazma, October 1941

Chapter Seven Factory #100 Tankograd Chelyabinsk Tractor Plant, December 1941

Chapter Eight German Outpost, Position 57th Panzer Corps, December 5, 1941

Chapter Nine Bridge Over the River Protva, Late December 1941

Chapter Ten German Side of the River Protva

Chapter Eleven 12/31/41, Rail Line, Outskirts of Maloyaroslavets

Chapter Twelve Airfield Outside Medyn, USSR

Chapter Thirteen German After-Action Report, January 1942, Medyn

Chapter Fourteen Retreating German Column, Medyn, January 1942

Key Characters

Glossary

Selected Bibliography

Selected Websites

About The Author

Author’s Note

I have always had a fascination for the war on the Eastern Front. Even as a small child, I sat for hours watching the old black and white documentaries on television. I was mesmerized by the size and scope of the conflict. I sat wide-eyed as giant tanks rumbled about on the vast steppes and thousands of steel-helmeted soldiers dashed forward with bayonet-tipped rifles.

My time in the military, during the closing moments of the Cold War, gave me a better perspective on my potential adversary, and as I learned and studied up on my future opponent I began to gain a better understanding of the Russians.

After the end of the Cold War, more information became available, so even an amateur like me was able to pursue my interest. What started as a hobby grew into the thesis for my graduate studies (still not complete by the way).

This work was not intended to be a history lesson or technical manual about the weapons and equipment of World War II. That being said, in order to gain a somewhat accurate portrayal of the people, equipment, terminology, and events of the time, I had to research quite a few facts. Therefore a selected bibliography is at the rear of the book that also includes many of the websites that I have visited over the years. If anyone who reads this book would like more ‘real’ information concerning this conflict, I highly suggest these works. The maps contained are simple, created using Microsoft’s Visio program, and are only intended to assist the reader in the relative direction and basic locations of the forces and cities mentioned. The same goes for the dates. Quite often, certain dates conflict depending on one’s source, so at times dates are limited to months or certain weeks.

I made an earnest attempt to limit the jargon and not become too entangled with terms and nomenclature that would be unfamiliar to a casual reader, especially an American one. However, many terms, phrases, and abbreviations are necessary to maintain the ‘flavor’ of the book and the time period. Therefore, a glossary of common terms is provided in the back. The German Army, Waffen-SS, and Red Army all have separate names for their military ranks. Once again in an effort to simplify things for the reader, I decided to stick to the American equivalent deviating only occasionally. One of the things that drove me nuts during the writing of this book was determining which units my characters would belong to. Anyone familiar with the conflict on the Eastern Front is aware that during the opening phases of the war the Soviet Army suffered catastrophic loses and dozens of entire units were encircled and annihilated in a matter of hours, while many others were destroyed on route by the German Luftwaffe. Many units appear then disappear either through attrition, reassignment, rest and refit, or in some cases, they were wiped out to the last man. These facts compounded by the lack of modern communication equipment made tracking some of these formations steadily throughout an entire campaign difficult to say the least.

The reverse happened on the German side once the Soviets launched their main counterblows that fall. As a result, one can read about many ad hoc formations, battle groups, and even partisan units, comprised of former soldiers bypassed throughout the entire conflict. To keep it simple, I tried to have the characters assigned to the larger army groups and big cities, but at the tactical local level created fictitious Alarm, Battle, and Mobile groups.

In closing I wish to express my thanks to the following individuals for their love, support, and assistance as I plodded my way through my very first novel.

Thanks to my parents, Thomas and Anna Broderick, for all their support. They did without so my siblings and I had what we needed in order to get a good start in life and have continued to stand by us regardless of our endeavors.

I want to thank Larry Daly, an honest, patient man, who never gave up on me during my most trying times and is someone who I am proud to call my uncle. Thanks to Scott for getting me up to speed on some of the technical aspects during the drafting of the book.

I can’t say enough about all of my coworkers who were marvelous in keeping my spirits up and standing shoulder to shoulder with me day in and day out. I cannot think of a finer team to be part of.

And a special thanks to Hoke. If there is a more giving man on the planet I have yet to come across him. Hoke believed in my talents and abilities and never let me settle for anything less than my best in work and in my personal life. Without Hoke’s insightful encouragement for me to follow my pursuits, in all likelihood, this book would have remained just another daydream of mine. Many thanks, Hoke.

Introduction

On the 22nd of June 1941, the German Army launched Operation Barbarossa, the invasion of the Soviet Union. The goal of the overly ambitious campaign was to sweep through the Soviet Union’s thin defenses using battles of envelopment from three concentrated army groups arranged from north to south.

When the operation was completed, the German Army would have destroyed the bulk of the Soviet Army’s field forces and held a rough north–south line stretching from the arctic port of Archangelsk down through Moscow, meandering southeast along the Volga River down to Stalingrad.

Once secured, these areas would provide a springboard from which the mighty German Luftwaffe could bomb what was left of the Soviet Union’s army and industrial bases east towards the Ural Mountains.

Operation Barbarossa was intended to be a lightning-quick campaign, completed prior to the onset of the notoriously brutal Russian winter. History has shown time and time again, Russia is a most inhospitable host to invaders. Many years of conflict and neglect had left the Soviet Union’s transportation infrastructure in shambles. Hitler’s waffling and incessant meddling in military operations led to untimely delays in the capture of Moscow.

The sunny days and fair weather of summer gradually gave way to the gray, misty gloom of fall. The clock was ticking. An anxious Hitler, fearful of not accomplishing his objectives prior to the onset of winter, initiated a new phase and hopefully final phase of the campaign. Fuehrer Directive # 35 dated September 6th, 1941 outlined several goals for a new offensive. One of the goals of the directive was the destruction of the Red Army outside Moscow. The final push to capture Moscow was given the code name Taifun and kicked off in earnest on October 2, 1941.

The outbreak of the Great Patriotic War, as most Russians now remember it, could not have come at a worse time for the Soviet military. Stalin’s ruthless civilian and military purges in the late thirties had left the emerging nation depleted of skilled technicians and experienced leadership. The Soviet Union was in the midst of its third five-year plan, an ambitious effort by Stalin, launched in 1929 to improve the Soviet Union’s industrialization and prepare them for the inevitable conflict with the West. The Soviet Union’s recent shift westward of its sphere of influence, after the Non-Aggression Pact with Germany, had left her military stretched thin. The bases, airfields, and fortifications on her recently annexed western borders and Baltic regions were incomplete, run down, and quickly overrun by the German Army.

By late October, it was evident the Soviets had absorbed Germany’s best shot and were beginning to recover from the catastrophic defeats of the summer. However, they were not entirely out of the woods. New and reserve armies were hastily assembled and thrown into the melee to plug holes and blunt further advances. The entire population rallied to the defense of the Motherland.

In the Far East, the Japanese threat had subsided, freeing up thousands of well-trained and highly motivated troops. Stalin began to shift these forces along with hundreds of the new T-34 tanks to the defense of Moscow. The newly arrived troops, many whom were of tough Siberian stock, formed up with the battle-hardened remnants of the summer debacles. These new forces would present a formidable opponent.

Several hundred kilometers east of the fighting, the last of the relocated heavy industries were being uncrated. Within days, the assembly lines would be up and running, producing the implements of war desperately needed by the soldiers and airman at the front. Their success or failure would decide the outcome of the war. The fate of Russia hung in the balance. Stop Operation Typhoon, and Russia would be saved!

Chapter One

June 23, 1941, 63rd Fortified Region,

East of Nowogrudek, USSR

Damn fine way to start off a war, announced Senior Lieutenant Alexander Semenov, as he fished into the pocket of his dirty tanker’s coveralls. He removed a small pouch of officer’s tobacco and handed it over to his driver.

Running out of fuel is not the worst fate that could have befallen us the past couple of days, replied Senior Sergeant Il’ya Akoian with a shrug. Besides, it gives us a great opportunity to get out of that cramped steel coffin of ours, stretch our legs a spell, and get some fresh air. It’s such a beautiful summer afternoon. Believe me, come winter, when our teeth are chattering incessantly… The plucky Armenian stopped momentarily, and with some pieces of tattered newspaper began to roll a couple of cigarettes.

The tobacco issued to officers was of slightly better quality than that of the Makhorka tobacco most enlisted men smoked.

I am sure we will look back on this and share a good laugh, announced Il’ya.

Always the optimist, chuckled Alexander shaking his head.

Il’ya handed him the fat cigarette. His statement was a true one. The man had an inexplicable way of willing things into being. Alexander had originally met his longtime driver/mechanic during the Winter War with Finland in 1939. Since then, the two had shared many a tough time together. They had become close friends and inseparable.

Their most recent assignment was the delivery of a battalion of tanks to the 29th Tank Division of the 11th Mechanized Corps. Their new unit was located in the 3rd Army sector along the western frontier border with Germany.

Every good collective needs somebody who can look at the bright side of affairs. Besides, what else could we have done? quipped Il’ya. The war is only a day old; there will be plenty of fighting for us all soon enough. The two men continued to lug their empty gasoline cans eastward, heading along the nearly deserted sandy track.

Although they are empty, the bulky metal containers can weigh a man down, and even if the we were lucky enough to locate some gasoline, two exhausted men will be hard pressed to get the full cans all the way back to our stricken tank, thought Alexander.

So, we are alone now, old friend. You can speak to me freely. Is our situation as bad as they say? asked Il’ya, taking healthy puff of his cigarette.

Alexander exhaled noisily. Remember Finland back in December of ’39?

When we were attached to the 163rd around Suomussalmi? asked Il’ya. That was when the enemy ski teams swept around our flank and cut us off.

Alexander nodded.

That bad? asked Il’ya solemnly.

I’m afraid this time it’s far worse. Alexander gestured vaguely. Instead of a single division that is surrounded, it’s entire armies—and lots of them. In Minsk alone, we risk the loss of four entire army groups, nearly a half million men. Our enemy this time is far more cunning than the Finns. They are better trained, equipped with the finest weapons Germany can produce, and they are highly motivated. Our entire Western Front may be on the verge of collapsing within a few days time.

I thought we had a friendship agreement with Germany? Why would they do something like this? Il’ya sighed and shifted the green gas can to his other hand.

That’s a good question. Let us hope we do not get to ask them in person anytime soon, replied Alexander with a grin.

What about the other military districts? Aren’t they lending us support?

They are no better off. The fascists sent in two more large army groups. The latest intelligence from headquarters was that the one to the north, was headed straight for Leningrad. The German army group to our south was in the Ukraine sweeping in to the Donbas region.

How is old Peter Mikhailovich these days? inquired Il’ya. He thought a change in subject would do them both some good.

He was recalled to Moscow for a big meeting with the Deputies of the Heavy Machinery Commissariat and the State Planning Commission. I haven’t heard from him since.

And your two uncles? Il’ya knew it was sore subject for Alexander but decided it was best to ask. In case the lad needed to get anything off his chest, it would be better for him to talk here in safety where there were no suspicious ears lurking about.

Alexander’s late mother Sabine was of German descent, a Volksdeutsche, as the Germans referred to those with German blood living outside Germany. Her parents had emigrated from Germany at the turn of the century when she was a small child. The family settled in the autonomous Socialist Soviet Republic of the Volga-Germans, located a few hundred kilometers north of Stalingrad. Her older brother Wilhelm and sister Ingrid stayed back in Germany with her grandparents to finish school and never relocated. His uncle Wilhelm now held the rank of colonel in the German Army.

His mother’s older sister, Ingrid, married and remained in Germany. Ingrid’s husband, Jacob, had graduated college in the United States and returned to Germany during the Great Depression. He had found design work at Krupp for a short time in the early thirties. However, recently, he had found a home accepting a commission as a captain in Adolf Hitler’s vaunted Waffen-SS. If this information were to leak out it would undoubtedly land his good friend in prison.

In the late nineteen twenties and early thirties, Alexander’s uncles had spent time in the Kazan region of the Soviet Union east of Moscow. Prior to Adolf Hitler’s rise to power, the Germans and Soviets had several secret weapon development and testing sites located throughout the Soviet Union. The treaty of Versailles, drafted after Germany’s loss in the First World War, had placed severe economic and military restrictions on Germany. The Soviet Union provided a fertile testing area far from the world’s prying eyes.

The Soviet Union lagged behind the west in industrial technology, weapons, and modern factories. In 1929, Stalin introduced the first of what was to be several five-year plans to bring the country out of its agrarian slumber. Germany provided the desperately needed technical expertise, machinery, and funds for the various programs such as tank, aircraft, and chemical weapons development. The Soviet Union would provide the space.

By the early nineteen twenties, both countries were shunned by the world community and marked as pariahs. They would come to rely on each other for survival. Alexander’s father, a mechanical engineer with a cavalry background, was sent to the Kazan Heavy Testing Facility in 1930, where he worked on a team with Wilhelm and Jacob. The men wore civilian clothes and held titles of technical specialists.

When Alexander was a young boy, he worshiped the ground his uncles walked on. He spent as much time as he could with his father and uncles, even sneaking into the secret test facilities for a quick ride on some of the strange vehicles with their giant caterpillar tracks.

To young Alexander, it was all a fun game. Each night before going to sleep he promised himself he would some day drive the big tanks just like his father and uncles. Alexander had inherited more than his mother’s spirit for adventure. The strapping young man with his blonde hair and steel-blue eyes could just as easily pass for a German youth. Il’ya was the only one outside of Alexander’s immediate family aware of the German bloodline.

Alexander mulled the question over in his mind for a moment. It was a valid one. What about Uncles Wilhelm and Jacob? The family had lost touch just after his grandparents lost their farm to collectivization a few years back. They had only exchanged a few brief letters and telephone calls. His uncles were very proud of him after his graduation from the officer’s tank training course and were delighted when he had been decorated with the Order of Lenin for bravery during the Finland campaign.

They had often joked that maybe they could fight as comrades against the English or even the Americans some day. Never in a million years, did he dream he would have to square off with his beloved mentors.

All the signs were there, of course. Hitler’s campaigns in the west were the talk around all the officers’ circles. There was much debate and the war games centered on a potential conflict with Germany. Up until now, Alexander preferred not to think about it and dismissed the gossip as nonsense. He had little doubt that the two of them were out there; he could feel it in his bones. Soon he would face the ultimate test of years of training, and he felt sick to his stomach.

No, I have heard relatively little of them since my mother’s passing two years ago. Alexander puffed on his fat cigarette and coughed spasmodically. Did you roll this using our regimental newspaper? He pointed to the cigarette dangling from his lips.

Yes, it’s our paper alright, joked Akoian. The troops find it easier to smoke than to read. A fair amount of them are illiterate farm boys and could not read a word of this nonsense, even if they wanted to. Besides, it is very difficult for us enlisted to get our hands on papers of any kind, let alone decent cigarette rolling papers. Il’ya gave the young lieutenant a friendly slap on the back.

Keep smoking those, and we will make a man of you yet. Next time we shall share some of my tobacco. Akoian paused for a moment and took a deep breath. That is provided, of course, the Germans don’t crush us to dust first.

"No, thank you. I have already had some of your tobacco. Quite frankly, I could get a better smoke from pencil shavings, and don’t let the politruk see you smoking his best work. He will have an aneurysm," Alexander quipped.

Better to have him see me smoking his writings, than to have him catch me wiping my backside with them. Akoian shrugged. Besides, Comrade Kulikov puffs like an industrial smokestack; he’s one of the paper’s biggest customers! I tell you, Sasha, that man is as annoying as a woodpecker.

He is entertaining; I give him that much credit.

Yes, but as for some of those revolutionary and patriotic tall tales he fills the young one’s heads with… Il’ya shook his head and snorted. I haven’t heard such stories since I was a small child. I almost expect him to toss in the old witch, Baba-Yaga, into the plot line. The young ones do not know the difference between the truth and fancy stories. They see a uniform and falsely assume they are getting the truth.

You must remember the political officer walks a fine line and he is well intentioned. Besides, we have had far worse.

That’s true. I would rather have Comrade Kulikov than someone else, but if he does not learn to speak the facts… Il’ya stopped and faced Alexander to emphasize his point. For example, just the other day Crewman Frolov approached Comrade Kulikov. Frolov’s sister was in a bad way and needed a special operation. Il’ya gestured vaguely. Women stuff.

Frolov? Alexander mumbled, searching his memory. Isn’t he the driver on Sergeant Gorbenko’s tank?

Yes. Anyway, his sister, Inna, is in need of this operation to save her life. Do you think Comrade Kulikov gets off his backside and writes a letter to the hospital administrator in Saratov on poor Frolov’s behalf? Il’ya shook his head. Instead, he fills the boy with nonsensical fabricated statistics concerning mortality rates and great socialist medical achievements. Do you think Frolov’s poor sister is any better off? The rules specifically state family members of servicemen should get preferential treatment for operations and whatnot. At least that is what they spoon-feed these boys at the induction centers. In the end, she is no better off. I do not think Comrade Kulikov is being forthright and truthful with the lad. These boys might be peasants, but they are not stupid.

"Is Private Frolov a Komsomol member?" asked Alexander.

No, I do not think so.

For the young men of today’s army, fellows like Kulikov are of no use. They are nothing but Party ‘strawmen’ stuffed with irrelevant facts and useless tidbits. And if I can speak frankly, I do not think most of his quotations are accurate. He has bent history more towards his liking and in the end when his promises do not materialize morale suffers.

Well, I believe I have a friend up at the Regimental Party Bureau that may be able to assist Frolov’s poor sister. I will try to contact him once we are settled.

Alexander looked wearily towards the sky. Just remember those ‘strawmen’ you speak of carry service revolvers and can become very dangerous to your health if crossed. If the men need a history lesson, I will be more than happy to volunteer my services. I received good history grades at the Academy.

You received good grades in everything at the Academy or anywhere else for that matter. You should have been an instructor. I still do not know what possessed you to be a line officer. The two men were silent for a few moments as they struggled down the road with their gasoline cans.

"Do you know who would make a good politruk?" asked Il’ya, as he kicked a discarded metal container across the road.

Who?

Yegor Yakovlevich.

The big fellow from the Quarter Master Company? asked Alexander, surprised.

The one and only.

Isn’t he considered a sort of… Alexander searched for the right words but could not find any. Well, isn’t he considered a sort of…

A village idiot, the Armenian answered for him and laughed loudly. Yes, that may be true, but at least he has common sense and skills we could use out in the field.

How so?

Haven’t you noticed how he always seems to know when the weather is going to turn foul. Even if the sky is clear, he can sense it coming.

Now that you mention it. I did think it queer the other afternoon when I caught him walking around with his waterproof groundsheet tied around him like a rain poncho. I remember looking up at the sky, and I couldn’t see a cloud anywhere. Sure enough, not long after, we experienced a good soaking. Alexander rubbed the stubble on his chin. But then again, my old grandfather could predict changes in the weather. I think it was his rheumatism.

You have a point there. However, I saw him deliver a calf during summer exercises. He looked like a real pro and put that slouch of a regimental veterinarian to shame.

The two men broke out into a hardy laugh, something they had not been able to do since the start of the war.

"I never realized he was so talented, maybe if he was our political officer the men would have fresh milk now and then. I should submit his name for induction into the Komsomol at our next political open discussion. Alexander noticed the look of concern on his friend’s face. Why so glum?"

I spoke to one of my friends in his unit, and he told me that Yegor came up missing a couple hours after the war started. They sent him to a supply depot for ammunition. The Fritzes hit the depot good and blew it to bits. When he didn’t return for the evening meal, they became suspicious. It’s not like him to miss a meal. They figured he bought the farm during the attack.

Well, I’m sure he will turn up unharmed. It’s a bit chaotic now. Didn’t you say he was as strong as a bear? Alexander tried to be supportive.

Yes, I saw him bend back the fender on Frolov’s tank without the use of a crowbar. The man’s hands are as big as a bear’s. Il’ya stuck his hands out in an exaggerated movement.

Didn’t the men have a nickname for him? ‘Horse’ something or other?

Yes, it was a very rude name. They called him ‘horse-head’ or something to that effect. His head was as big as a horse’s. To top it off, he was kicked in the head by a mule while working on his collective farm a few years back. He was never the same after that.

Alexander snorted, That certainly explains a few things.

Il’ya stopped short and pointed to an abandoned lorry on the north side of the road. Its engine covers were in the upright position. Looks like a mechanical breakdown. Hopefully, they did not have time to siphon the fuel. The two men took off in a trot kicking up a plume of dust in their wake. Alexander stuck his head in the engine compartment. Il’ya went behind the cab and rapped on the fuel tank with his knuckle.

Sounds like we may have some petrol left. Il’ya removed the black rubber hose draped around his neck and opened the gas cap. Alexander had just poked his head outside the engine compartment for a moment and was about to say something when he saw them, out of the corner of his eye, two black specs, coming in fast just above the horizon. It took only a moment for the combat veteran to identify them as an immediate threat.

Il’ya, Messers! Coming in low, from the west! cried Alexander dropping down to his feet. Il’ya, a recipient of more than one strafing attack in his day, did not need to be told twice. The German Me-109 was a formidable fighter and one not to be challenged by a couple of tankers armed only with pistols. The two men scrambled and dove for cover in a swale just in time. Tiny flashes of light blinked from the propeller hubs of the approaching aircraft. The shots walked their way across the road kicking up chunks of dirt before striking home. The derelict cargo truck was peppered with armor-piercing 20-millimeter cannon shells and erupted into a fireball, knocking the wind out of the two men lying only meters away. A wave of extreme heat rushed over them, as splinters of steel, wood, and debris from the explosion showered the entire area.

With the destruction of the truck complete, the two planes streaked westward towards their home airfields. Alexander looked up over his shoulder and could see the large black crosses of the German Luftwaffe on the underside of the planes’ wings.

Alexander stood up and with a brush of his hand removed the dust and debris off his uniform.

That was a little too close for my likes, announced Il’ya. He carefully checked to make sure he was still in one piece. Those damn Fritz pilots are getting a bit full of themselves lately. Where is our air force?

Alexander pointed to the smoking remains of a downed fighter plane resting in a grove just south of the roadway; the Red Star of the Soviet Union was clearly visible on the crumpled tail section. The body of the dead pilot hung half in and half out of the cockpit.

Look! exclaimed Il’ya, stopping in his tracks.

Yes, poor fellow, moaned Alexander glumly.

No. Il’ya shook his head emphatically. I was not speaking of the pilot. He placed a friendly hand on Alexander’s shoulder and extended his arm. Look to the right of the plane, in the shadow of the tree line!

Alexander blinked in disbelief; surely his eyes were playing tricks on him. The dark snout of a 76.2mm gun tube protruded from the tree line, not more than 50 meters away. The two men sprinted across the clearing and stopped short of the abandoned T-34 tank. All the access hatches were opened and the crews’ gear was scattered about, giving the impression of a hasty departure.

I don’t think it too patriotic leaving one of our beautiful fighting machines such as this unattended, commented Il’ya with more than a hint of reproach in his voice. The men performed a quick visual inspection of the exterior looking for the cause of the crew’s departure.

The green paint scheme looked fresh. Alexander stumbled over a steel towing cable connected to the front tow hooks. It was still wrapped in its original lubricated wax paper.

Looks like it was straight from the factory, probably Kharkov. I don’t think the factory in Stalingrad is in full swing yet.

Il’ya checked the rectangular external fuel tank located along the hull. The odd-looking spare tanks resembled a toolbox more than something carrying fuel.

There seems to be plenty of fuel. I will go check the inside. He walked slowly to the front of the tank performing a visual inspection of the road wheels and checked the tension on the tracks, arriving at the driver’s access hatch located on the front glacis plate. The Armenian poked his head inside and wrinkled his nose. Even with the hatches open, the tank smelled bad. There was just no way around it, four men cooped up inside a steel compartment in the boiling summer heat was bound to create a foul odor. The crew compartment was a mess; articles of clothing, tools, and personal gear were strewn about. He barely squeezed his stout frame through the square opening at the front of the tank, landing on the driver’s seat with a thud.

The interior space was well-lit and painted white. With the hatch open, the driver’s view was limited but acceptable. He noticed right away that the giant engine access panel located at the rear of the crew compartment was ajar. Most likely the new and inexperienced crew ran into some mechanical difficulties and decided it best to just leave the tank here, thought Il’ya, as he crawled on all fours back to the engine firewall. These new 34s already had a reputation for a poor engine air filtration system. Once all that sand and grit worked its way into the cylinders, crankshaft, and other moving engine components, the engine became useless. The thick, black, rubber matting lining the floor was still damp despite the afternoon summer heat.

Il’ya navigated around some discarded shell casings and some empty food tins. He was careful not to smash his head on the breach of the main gun. At least they got off a few rounds before they quit the scene, he mused.

Alexander leaned in from the giant square main access hatch located on top of the turret. I’m going to have a look around the woods, to see if the owners are off catching up on their beauty sleep.

Il’ya gave him a thumbs-up and slid the heavy access panel located on the rear firewall of the crew compartment out of the way. This allowed him to examine the compartment that housed the massive fuel injected, four stroke, twelve-cylinder engine. He reached behind his back and grabbed a flashlight from out of the debris scattered on the deck.

Immediately, his mechanical instincts kicked in. There was no exterior battle damage or any sign that someone was tinkering with the engine from the outside access hatches. Since the tank had plenty of fuel, the problem might be along the fuel lines or the fuel injector system. There were no unusual smells of burnt oil or leaking diesel emanating from the compartment.

He decided to attempt a simple check and reached into the right side of the engine bulkhead and fumbled for the fuel distribution cock. A grin creased his face. Sure enough, the handle was in the down position. The fuel from the tanks to the engine had been shut-off. The only question was, why? Was there unseen damage somewhere? Or a possible problem whereby starting the vehicle would destroy the engine? There was only one way to find out. He flipped the handle to the upright position.

Hopefully, incompetence was the sole reason for the shut down. Replacing the panel, he scurried up to the driver’s position to begin the lengthy starting rituals associated with most Russian vehicles. The V-12 diesel needed pre-heating and the proper amount of fuel for priming the engine. Luckily the weather was warm and that would be an advantage.

Alexander was unable to locate anyone in the immediate wooded area and had stopped briefly to relieve himself when he heard it. At first, he thought he might be hallucinating and craned his head towards the clearing. There it was again. It was the familiar whine of a flywheel. There was a cough, a sputter, and then, all at once, a terrific boom. Alexander leapt forward, hurdling a dead pine tree strewn across the path. Stopping at the tree line, his heart leapt for joy! For the first time in his life, the stink of exhaust fumes smelled better than all the Scotch pine and aspen in all of Belarus!

Akoian, you mechanical virtuoso! I can’t believe you got it started! Alexander exclaimed over the throaty growl of the engine. The rear exhausts belched dirty blue-black smoke that engulfed the entire tank. Alexander clambered up and over into the turret, taking his place in the commander’s chair. Il’ya throttled up the engine, turned his head towards his platoon commander, and flashed a toothy grin. Alexander returned his thumbs up. The two secured their black, padded tanker’s crewman helmets, and Alexander leaned down and shouted above the din, Do you think you can drive this beast?

We shall know soon enough! Communications on this tank are difficult. Just put your feet up against my back. If you need me to steer left or right just use your boots!

Alexander nodded.

A groan emitted from the gearbox. The tracks gripped the soft earth and the twenty-six ton tank lurched forward. I’m not sure how far we can go, announced the Armenian. The transmissions on these new 34s are none too reliable, and this one feels like it’s ready to go. Not to mention the air filters, they do not work at all. We will need to locate the nearest maintenance and repair depot for spares or we will not get very far. We can lash a spare transmission on the engine deck if need be.

Minsk should be just north of us, we can pick up our crew on the way. I’m sure there will be a divisional or at the very least a regimental facility of some sort.

Il’ya eased the tank up onto the roadway and trundled northward towards Minsk.

June 24, 1941, Southwest of Minsk

So far, so good, thought Alexander. They were only a twenty or so kilometers southwest of Minsk. The tank had held up thus far. However, Il’ya informed him mechanical failure was imminent unless immediate maintenance was performed. The two experienced tankers were impressed with the T-34s handling capabilities. When compared to other tanks, the ride was not so bad.

Sasha, I have decided on a pet name for our tank. There was a brief pause then in Akoian’s heavily accented Russian, "Siranoush. It is Armenian for ‘lovely woman’. The moment I laid my eyes on her, I was spellbound. What do you think, old friend?"

Alexander could hear the smile in his sergeant’s voice and smiled himself. Il’ya was right. The new 34s were of sleek design with thick sloping frontal armor and clean lines. They were unique, cutting edge, and the new tanks were unmatched by their peers. Nothing a bit more masculine? How about the name of a hero of the Revolution? asked Alexander jokingly. It is a machine of war, you know.

Correction, Comrade Lieutenant, it is a ‘she,’ and ‘Hell have no wrath…’

"Ok, you win, Siranoush, it is. I like it besides, it has a certain zip to it."

The tank rounded a slight bend and came upon several smoldering Russian tanks in a cornfield. A bleeding young Russian soldier sat dejectedly by the roadside, his face buried in his hands. Pull over, Il’ya. Alexander could feel the giant slow to a crawl as his driver downshifted gears bringing Siranoush to a stop less than a meter from the man. Il’ya was becoming familiar with the handling characteristics of their new machine.

That’s Private Lashenko, from Sergeant Shubin’s tank. He looks badly shaken, announced Akoian. These tanks must be from our Battalion.

The two men got out of the machine. Il’ya grabbed the medical kit and sat down next to their bleeding comrade. Alexander strode out into the field to see if there were any more wounded men who might not have been able to drag themselves up to the road.

What happened, Slava? Where is everyone else? Akoian examined the wounded soldier. Lashenko shook his head and winced as antiseptic was applied to the two-centimeter gash across his forehead.

Ambushed by German 88s.

Where is Sergeant Shubin? Il’ya wrapped a fresh dressing around the man’s head.

Dead, just like the rest of them. He pointed to the field where Alexander was kneeling next to a body.

All of them? Il’ya raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Lashenko squirmed uncomfortably.

Hold still. Let me finish this. Akoian tied up the bandage and leaned back to glance at his handiwork. There you go. Good as new. Now, I think we both could use a smoke.

Lashenko was shivering, but nodded his head slowly. "Da."

Sergeant Akoian, if you are finished there, I need to see you. Il’ya looked up. It was Alexander and his face was the color crimson.

Stay put, Slava. Akoian placed a calming hand on the boy’s shoulder. I will go roll us a couple of smokes. The sergeant stood up and walked over to the edge of the field next to Alexander and beyond earshot of the wounded man.

Alexander nodded towards several Russian bodies lying in a perfectly straight line. Executed.

All of them? Akoian’s voice betrayed his disbelief.

Only the one’s that escaped their burning tanks. The rest look like him. Alexander pointed towards a burned out tank carcass. A horribly disfigured body slumped out of the turret. It’s blackened bits of tattered uniform fluttered in the late afternoon breeze. Akoian could smell the burnt flesh and held back a gag.

What kind of animals shoot prisoners of war? hissed Il’ya.

The same kind that break friendship treaties.

Barbarians! gasped Akoian. He knelt down next to the body of Sergeant Shubin, a dear old comrade of his. He gently brushed a wisp of the dead man’s hair away from his sightless eyes. A tear trickled down the sergeant’s weathered face, and he made the sign of the cross. He whispered, Rest my friend. Your death will not have been in vain. I swear to you on all that I hold sacred, I will not rest until the footprints of those responsible for this crime are wiped clean from the face of the earth.

The sergeant stood up and looked over at Alexander with a teary expression. When I was a young boy, the Moslem Turks declared a jihad on the Armenian Christians.

A what? asked Alexander.

A jihad. It is the Moslem term for ‘Holy War.’ I guess it is similar to the pogroms experienced by your country’s Jews back at the turn of the century. Although disputes and bloody feuds had already been going on for centuries between the Christians and Moslems, back in 1914, it devastated our family business. My father said to me, ‘Ishag, we must move away from this place.’ That is how I ended up in Baku. Akoian gave a shrug of his shoulders. In the end, it was no different. They killed my people just the same. The experienced toughened me. Less than twenty percent of our original population survived. However, I realize in our new socialist utopia, we are not to discuss these things.

Il’ya’s real name was Ishag. When he was conscripted into one of the old territorial units, his comrades figured it was just as easy to call him Il’ya as his given Armenian name of Ishag. The new, more Russian-sounding name stuck.

Alexander knew the man long enough to know when to remain quiet. Il’ya strode back to Lashenko who had been observing the two from a distance. The boy had a far away look in his eyes, similar to many others who had witnessed terrible things. Slava, who did this? Did you see any unit identification or vehicle markings? Where did these animals go? He shook the frightened private by the shoulders. Think, Lashenko. You must remember something!

Take it easy Sergeant Akoian. Alexander’s voice was firm and business-like. He squatted down on his haunches to make eye contact with the young man. Private Lashenko, what happened, son? Although Alexander was no more than a few years older than his men, he learned using a firm, fatherly tone worked well and had a calming effect on those who were rattled.

Lashenko glanced up at his sergeant then back to Alexander. We were in column formation moving north. He pointed towards the winding road. Reports came in to us that the Germans were closing in on Minsk, and some of their tanks had been spotted southwest of here. We began to take light automatic weapons fire from a pair of German armored cars. They were sitting just at the edge of the wood line to our west. He pointed to the now empty stand of birch trees. It did not seem like much.’ He shrugged his shoulders. So, Sergeant Shubin figured they were the advance scouts and we could make short work of them and move on.

Then what happened? Alexander prodded the boy.

Comrade Battalion Commander dispatched our four tanks to clean them up while the rest of the battalion continued on towards Minsk.

So, Captain Danilov split up the battalion and left you here holding the bag? Akoian was angry. Alexander raised his hand to silence him.

Then what happened, Private Lashenko?

Slava took a sip of water and squinted into the late afternoon sun.

We charged them at full speed. He gestured towards the battered green stalks.

We hit this soft cornfield, and that slowed us down-quite a bit. Those old tanks aren’t like the new 34s. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and pointed towards Alexander’s tank. Anyway, once we had been slowed down, the Fritz eighty-eight millimeter anti aircraft gun opened up on us. They must have been set up directly behind us and started with the last tank in the formation and worked their way forward. We were unaware the other tanks behind us were hit until we bailed out of ours. Lashenko swept his hand across the battle area in an animated fashion.

Did anyone get out a radio transmission for help? asked Akoian.

Lashenko shook his head in a deliberate manner. None of our four tanks were equipped with a wireless set.

What happened after you were hit, I mean with the rest of your comrades? Alexander pointed to the motionless bodies.

We took a hit in the rear engine compartment and caught fire. Sergeant Shubin ordered us to get out. Lashenko’s voice became shaky. I dropped to the ground, noticed the other vehicles were burning, and realized we were in for it. He took a generous gulp of water from Akoian’s canteen. There was a thunderous explosion and a wave of heat washed over me. He was not kidding. The front of his uniform was scorched black and he was missing his eyebrows.

I must have been knocked unconscious and by the looks of me, the Fritzes must of mistaken me for dead. I was probably only out for a short time. When I came to, the fascists had rounded up the survivors.

Were those eight the only ones? inquired Akoian, settling down somewhat.

Slava nodded. At first, they had separated Comrade Kulikov to the side. My guess was that it was because of his commissar position. I saw them pointing at the red star patch on his sleeve.

Akoian furrowed his brows. Why would they do that?

Lashenko shrugged his shoulders. My German is not so good, but I thought I overheard something about being a commissar and some order. Anyway, they shot the political officer first. I was stunned and could not understand why they would just up and shoot someone for no reason. His voice began to crack and tears were welling up in his eyes. Then those sons of bitches just machined gunned the lot of them. Then their commander, a colonel, walked the line and shot each man in the head for good measure. Lashenko broke down and began sobbing uncontrollably.

Akoian put his arm around the man.

Alexander exhaled noisily, disgusted by the whole affair. It’s alright, Comrade Lashenko. You were wounded quite seriously and performed your duties to the letter.

I’m sure you did all you could, Slava, Akoian interjected taking a handkerchief from his pocket and handing it to Lashenko.

That’s just it. I did nothing. I laid there still as a stone. I had no weapon as my pistol was missing; it must have been lost during the explosion. By all rights, I should be dead like my comrades.

Nonsense! I won’t hear of it. Akoian shook his finger. You fought like lions, and you were severely injured in the process. You are a hero. The only cowards out there today, were those animals who gun downed innocent prisoners of war! spluttered Akoian.

The sergeant is quite right. Alexander kneeled down next to