do!'
On the far side of the frozen river some ghostly black boxes are crawling slowly along. The noise leaves us in no doubt of what they are. The howling of the tracks and the infernal roar of the engines makes our blood freeze with fear.
Two, three, five T-34s rattle towards us through the snow. They slide sideways down the ice-covered slope to the river. For a moment we nourish the vain hope that they will turn over but they continue out on to the ice with a deafening din, whipping up the snow in clouds behind them. In silhouette they are almost beautiful. A T-34 attacking over an open field of snow is an impressive sight. Like some great, lithe carnivore. All its angles are rounded and smoothed down, so that it is almost a pleasure to see what human hands can create from the harshness of metal.
We grab hand-grenades and tie them in bundles. It is the only weapon we have against tanks.
I pull one leg up under me and get ready to jump. The trick is to jump at the right moment, just when you are inside the tank's blind-spot. I tense myself like a cornered animal which can only save itself by killing its attacker. Courage has nothing to do with it. Sheer terror, fear of death, is what drives us to the desperate attempt of attacking a T-34 with nothing but a bundle of grenades and an Mpi.
The leading T-34's machine-guns sputter wickedly at us.
A squad which has tried to run for it goes down under the concentrated fire. Not all are killed. A Feldwebel stops, lifts his arms to the heavens as if in a last prayer, rolls forward and then lies still on the snow.
Another squad runs zigzagging across the ice. A T-34 catches up with them and we hear bones and weapons crunch under its broad tracks.
The tank revolves on the spot crushing their remains into the hard packed snow. Blood splashes up its sides.
'Keep down,' rages the Old Man.
Two T-34s rock up over the ridge in front of us. The closest of them swings its machine-gun a little to the left.
'The swine's got you in his sights.' I think and can almost feel the gunner's eye on me. 'If he fires you've had it.' I know what it is like inside those damned 'Tea saloons', as we call the T-34s.
The front gunner is sure to be an experienced tankman, who knows it's not clever to waste too much time in thinking about what to do. Keep doing something and keep doing it quickly is the watchword.
'Shoot everything you see in front of you, never mind what it is?' That is the order imprinted on every tankman's consciousness.
'If you want to stay alive forget you're human. If you can't shoot 'em, mash 'em with your tracks!'
I jump up, slide down the ice-smooth slope and land in a soft snowdrift. Porta comes sliding down after me.
'The devil,' he pants, readying his bundle of grenades, 'This lot stinks of Valhalla and a short life!'
The leading T-34 stops with a jerk.
We hold our breaths in expectant fear. Tanks only stop when they are going to fire their gun. With tensed faces we wait for the short, wicked thud, and the roaring of the explosive shell which will tear us to pieces. They can't have missed seeing us. The observation slits in a T-34 are very good. Much better than in our own tanks.
The muzzle report is deafening. Flame shoots from the long-barrelled gun. A wind hot from the jaws of hell blows over us. There is a nasty plopping sound in the snow only a few centimetres from us.
Missed, I think, and stiffen like a frightened animal at the mercy of a rattlesnake, but no explosion follows.
'Dud,' mumbles Porta, staring in fascination at the hole the shell has made in the snow. 'Holy Agnes! A dud! Maybe the parson is right, and the German god is looking out for his own!'
'Let's get out of here,' I say, and start crawling towards the tank, which has begun to speed up its motor.
'Holy Mother of Kazan,' shouts Porta, terrified, 'we've bought it! Get down, she's coming for us!'
The T-34 roars into top revs and seems almost to go into a crouch as if ready to spring. In its
On the far side of the frozen river some ghostly black boxes are crawling slowly along. The noise leaves us in no doubt of what they are. The howling of the tracks and the infernal roar of the engines makes our blood freeze with fear.
Two, three, five T-34s rattle towards us through the snow. They slide sideways down the ice-covered slope to the river. For a moment we nourish the vain hope that they will turn over but they continue out on to the ice with a deafening din, whipping up the snow in clouds behind them. In silhouette they are almost beautiful. A T-34 attacking over an open field of snow is an impressive sight. Like some great, lithe carnivore. All its angles are rounded and smoothed down, so that it is almost a pleasure to see what human hands can create from the harshness of metal.
We grab hand-grenades and tie them in bundles. It is the only weapon we have against tanks.
I pull one leg up under me and get ready to jump. The trick is to jump at the right moment, just when you are inside the tank's blind-spot. I tense myself like a cornered animal which can only save itself by killing its attacker. Courage has nothing to do with it. Sheer terror, fear of death, is what drives us to the desperate attempt of attacking a T-34 with nothing but a bundle of grenades and an Mpi.
The leading T-34's machine-guns sputter wickedly at us.
A squad which has tried to run for it goes down under the concentrated fire. Not all are killed. A Feldwebel stops, lifts his arms to the heavens as if in a last prayer, rolls forward and then lies still on the snow.
Another squad runs zigzagging across the ice. A T-34 catches up with them and we hear bones and weapons crunch under its broad tracks.
The tank revolves on the spot crushing their remains into the hard packed snow. Blood splashes up its sides.
'Keep down,' rages the Old Man.
Two T-34s rock up over the ridge in front of us. The closest of them swings its machine-gun a little to the left.
'The swine's got you in his sights.' I think and can almost feel the gunner's eye on me. 'If he fires you've had it.' I know what it is like inside those damned 'Tea saloons', as we call the T-34s.
The front gunner is sure to be an experienced tankman, who knows it's not clever to waste too much time in thinking about what to do. Keep doing something and keep doing it quickly is the watchword.
'Shoot everything you see in front of you, never mind what it is?' That is the order imprinted on every tankman's consciousness.
'If you want to stay alive forget you're human. If you can't shoot 'em, mash 'em with your tracks!'
I jump up, slide down the ice-smooth slope and land in a soft snowdrift. Porta comes sliding down after me.
'The devil,' he pants, readying his bundle of grenades, 'This lot stinks of Valhalla and a short life!'
The leading T-34 stops with a jerk.
We hold our breaths in expectant fear. Tanks only stop when they are going to fire their gun. With tensed faces we wait for the short, wicked thud, and the roaring of the explosive shell which will tear us to pieces. They can't have missed seeing us. The observation slits in a T-34 are very good. Much better than in our own tanks.
The muzzle report is deafening. Flame shoots from the long-barrelled gun. A wind hot from the jaws of hell blows over us. There is a nasty plopping sound in the snow only a few centimetres from us.
Missed, I think, and stiffen like a frightened animal at the mercy of a rattlesnake, but no explosion follows.
'Dud,' mumbles Porta, staring in fascination at the hole the shell has made in the snow. 'Holy Agnes! A dud! Maybe the parson is right, and the German god is looking out for his own!'
'Let's get out of here,' I say, and start crawling towards the tank, which has begun to speed up its motor.
'Holy Mother of Kazan,' shouts Porta, terrified, 'we've bought it! Get down, she's coming for us!'
The T-34 roars into top revs and seems almost to go into a crouch as if ready to spring. In its
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