...
The regiment starts moving by mid-morning, after the main Fascist strongholds to be crushed have been located. After a few hundred meters, we go past the rear of several T-34 hulks, just smashed or put aflame by enemy guns. A little further away, we're approaching German defensive positions mauled by our own artillery: disabled AT guns, half-buried SPGs abandoned by their crews, soldiery lying on the ground, either dead or wounded. Some other details draw my attention too. Trails of fire coming down from the sky, as the full load of heavy rockets from a regiment of Katyusha launchers is about to pound the city center. A familiar roar growing behind me, until a trio of Shturmovik assault aircraft makes a low pass just over my head. Their wings adorned with the red star are loaded with deadly rockets, the scourge of the Fascist tankmen. The hard times when the German Luftwaffe ruled the skies are history. At last, I'm feeling back home: in the heat of battle.
Tempelhof is a quite accessible battlefield: after the wide open ground of the airport captured already, we travel along the straight paths of a garden cemetary covering several dessiatins. The perfect shooting range for the unmatched reach of our 122mm gun! I can guess that things shall get more and more complicated as we move closer to the older urban center. I take the lead, and Serebryakov proceeds to tail me, far away enough to keep a wide viewing angle upon my flanks. Our platoon is advancing at a slow go on, on its own along its assigned route, while we maintain radio contact wth the other units making headway on the parallel roads. Our carried infanrymen crowd the rear decks of both our tanks, clinging on to the turrets; they're expected to ensure our protection at close range and to engage the Fascist pockets of resistance. Tense with fear, these poor fellows clutch their PaPaSha submachineguns with drum magazines, scanning the windows and debris in the hope of being the first to detect the enemy ambushes.
Besides the continuous rumble from heavy artillery, a few bangs and bursts from direct firing can also be heard from the neighbouring streets. Yet for the moment, I do not encouter any opposition. A little group of German prisoners or deserters is walking towards our tanks: four privates without belts, with their hands high above their bare heads... Boys with stained faces, scared and skinny, 14 to 16 at most... I can't deny the pity they inspire in me, yet I'm wary of whatever may try these kids fanaticized by the Hitlerian propaganda. Submachinegun at hands, I sternly stare at them down from my cupola as they pass by, ready to open fire at the slightest sign that one of them may carry some hidden explosive device. False alarm, though. A little further away, an old couple of ragged and apathetic Berliners are pushing a baby carriage with poor belongings, wading through the slush from leaky waterworks. These human shadows stare at our tanks passing by without really seeing us, as if dreaming.
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( * * * )
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Tsar Pushka keeps on moving at dead slow, within a nerve-raking atmosphere. I can finally spot the first actual threat of the day, as I scan with binoculars the route we are to go. Caught a suspicious movement, twenty degrees to the left, about two hundred meters away: yah, it's clearly a long, dark grey pipe that I just saw moving in that rubble heap. Watching the place more carefully, I cannot find the pipe any more, but I can spot two or three Fritz infantrymen clad in brown overalls with helmet covers. The bastards are trying to hide the best they can under a large wine-colored canvas sheet, that melts into the surrounding rubbles and bricks dirt. So the 'pipe' must obviously be a Panzerschreck, the so aptly named "tank's fright", a dreaded rocket launcher ready to pierce the flank of my big Stalin tank as soon as it is exposed!
I'm barking orders at once over the intercom: «Panzerschreck spotted, 11 o'clock! Driver: stop! Gunner: coaxial MG, 200 meters, by the brick wall still standing!» Kolya complies on the spot, and jams on the brakes. But Chingiz... Just can't believe it! He turns his face to me, and... smiles! This asshole goat-focker obviously did not understand shit what I said! Sure, it's often difficult to manage to be heard clearly in the din of a 46-ton tank on the move. Usually, I rest my boots upon my gunner's shoulders ahead, in order to show him to which direction I want him to turn his attention as well as his turret. But now, I really have to land a couple of serious heel strikes upon the left shoulder of this bloody moron, to have him catch on to the emergency!
Thank God, at last my Kyrgyz understands where the danger lies: four swift turns to the left on the hand wheel, one kick on the firing pedal, and the coaxial MG starts shooting bursts, shredding the camo sheet and everything hidden underneath. Fragments of brick and stone get flying all around. I can see one of the bastards standing up and trying to run away, then falling back just as fast after spraying a cloud of blood. Can't deny, Sergeant Abulgazev is a freaking illiterate, yet a damn fine gunner too! In my binoculars, no motion any more now but from the falling dust. One last burst in order to make sure that nothing can breath any more ahead, and also to empty the coaxial Degtyaryov's drum magazine, that Sergei shall replace.
Chingiz turns back to me, and flashes a cheerful grin with yellow teeth: «Panzrirshrik 'tis kaputt, lyot'nant!» I love you too, Chinya, but as soon as dismounted, I'll have to set the record straight, with "double punch", on the point of instant obedience to the orders issued in Russian!
As we pass by the ambush site, two of our grunts packed behind jump down, then hop back on board bringing the Panzerschreck still operable, along with its rockets. Spoils of war, that could prove to be priceless in case of a bad meeting... However the place may have been marked by the Fritz gunners, for at this exact moment, we suffer a brief yet intense harrassing fire by mortars. We tankmen swiftly button up, while the infantrymen flatten themselves on the tanks' rear decks, passionately kissing and embracing the steel. After the storm, we realize that we did not take that much: one single slight injury!
...
