Short story

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Draconhuegela
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Short story

Post by Draconhuegela »

Do a bit of writing for works mag and thought I'd try and do something around my hobby

Have a read let me know what you think - Either I'll do more or I'll knock it on the head

Cheers

A Soldier’s Tale

The old man sat in the corner of the tiny London pub, nothing special, and nothing to make him stand out in the crowd of people who were already in there on that cold November day. On the table in front of him was nursed a half empty glass of whiskey...yeah - nothing special you'd think except maybe his eyes, within which a lifetime of memories was displayed, well those and the ribbon bar that was worn on his tatty jacket. Remembrance Day, he always wore his ribbons on this day. Not to show himself as a hero you understand, but to honour his old comrades no longer here. Suddenly the door to the pub was pushed open and the cold it brought with it made him flinch slightly.

A group of young obviously successful business men burst into the pub, nice suits and shoes, haircuts - just so... they were full of joy at some deal they'd just pulled off - shorts were ordered and downed in one. The old man said nothing........just looked at them quietly remembering a time when he had been that young and brash and times gone when he looked as happy as they did now.

One youth glanced round and seeing the old man looking at them nudged his mates "Ere Grandad... What you looking at?". The old man quickly looked away anxious not to cause any offence. "He must be a bleedin 'ero.....look at his medals" the youth had taken the old mans actions as a sign of weakness and was pushing it for all it was worth......."C'mon Grandad what did you do in the war ?" he asked. …………The old man said nothing.

Enjoying the old mans discomfort another of the group joined in "Yeah what did you do in the war ? ....come on we'll buy you a drink if you tell us some war stories granddad.....we could do with a few tall tales" he grinned and laughed as he said it. "What's it like to fight a war ?" he continued, "What’s a battle like?" another asked. The group laughed at the old mans obvious discomfort. They sat down next to him and nudged him "Come on Tell us about a battle" they chided.

Slowly the old man looked at them each in turn, they noticed a strange steely look in his eyes that hadn't been there before, It made them fall silent for a minute. for some reason they were unsure, then quietly he began to speak

"What is a battle you ask?" His voice had a strength in it that his age disguised and a slight accent could be detected. The group remained silent, something had happened in those last few minutes......a shift in the balance of power of the situation. The old man seized the opportunity and continued to speak, stronger now

"A battle is a funny thing, if you’ve never been in one it’s the hardest most unbelievable thing to describe….. Many times, you won’t see a battle. Oh, you’ll hear it, though and you will also feel it and smell it too. – A battle is something that happens elsewhere - while you’re waiting for it.” The old man paused and finished his whiskey before continuing. “There’s lots of waiting, that’s a soldiers worst nightmare.– If you’re in a fire fight, or being overrun by enemy troops you don’t have time to think, you just do….., it’s automatic, fire, reload, fire, reload and fire again – but while you’re waiting that’s when you think, when you worry, when you wonder and the worst of all – remember”. A look in the old man’s eye’s showed a pain that the group of youths couldn’t understand. - " However, back to battle”. he paused and looked at the faces of the group sat round him "You can be in the middle of the worst of engagements and not ‘see’ anything; At best, you’ll catch a glimpse of your enemy, a hazy figure shrouded in battlefield smoke, running between tanks or foxholes. You see the uniform not the man, time itself slows down to a crawl, it all takes forever, and then suddenly, - if there are too many men or too many tanks, - they are upon you. – Guns are emptied with no time to reload them, and you use anything to hand, bayonets, knives, your sharpened entrenching tool – you sharpened it especially for this role, helmet, sticks, rocks, and finally your bare hands, clawing the life out of another man with your hands round his throat, or his round yours. Nationality plays no part in this, comradeship, honour or duty. It is simply one animal against another locked in a struggle neither can dare to loose- I never did. Every time a battle is different, but in some ways, it’s always the same”.

One of the group, returned from the bar with a round of drinks and quietly, so as not to disturb the old soldier placed them carefully on the table. The old man took no notice of his drink, no longer cared whom his unlikely companions were, his mind he was a long way away from the London pub in which he was sat, a very long way away….. A long time ago... almost a lifetime ago.

Other drinkers in the pub had stopped what they were doing, cards were placed face down on tables, darts remained in the dartboard, and they too were listening in themselves now.

"Aah but the waiting, a soldier will do anything to avoid waiting. – You sit in your hole, trench, or tank and do anything possible not to think. You joke with your fellow soldiers pretending not to be scared, but your eyes always give you away. To avoid this shame, you check your equipment, over and over….. On the other hand - if you are in one - you make your hole more comfortable or better concealed, or bigger and deeper, or better still........ dryer. You crouch down as low as you can possible get in your hole and light a cigarette, cupping your hands round the lighted tip, not so much to hide the glow but to help keep your hands warm – its cold here, bone chillingly cold, like nothing you’ve ever felt before or thought it possible to feel and still survive. But you have survived so far - up to this point, through the ‘easy’ victories, the long march’s and even ‘easier’ victories in the east - yes in the early days, there were many ‘easy’ victories. Congratulations, you have survived it all, even through the cold of that winter.

Another pause, the old man glanced around, for a moment he didn’t remember where he was. However, it came back to him. Noticing the whiskey in front of him, he slowly reached out, his finger trembling and took a sip of the golden liquid. Carefully he placed the glass back on the table, never taking his eye’s from it. He continued, this time there was a strange sadness in his voice.

"Yes congratulations are in order, you’re such a fine man that you deserved to live whilst others fell. ……….No…In truth you are anything but fine…, the fine men were the first to fall…… In fact, you will do anything to survive - You will see things you did not think another human being capable of, you would witness and allow all manner of inhuman actions to be committed whilst you stand and watch it happen…..or worse still, do them yourself". one of the young men looked to his friend not believing what he was hearing. the old man singled him out "Don’t believe you would? ……..Oh you will my friend….You too will do these things; you will scavenge dead soldiers - some of whom may have been your best friends, for their coat, gloves or boots…….. Things they held precious in life, like letters from home and photographs of loved ones, will be used to stuff your uniform or boots to help keep you warm – help keep you alive for a while longer – across the field, river or forests in front of you, ‘The neighbours’ will be doing exactly the same thing – waiting……… Yes, you will do anything to survive, leave your own compatriots wounded behind to be butchered by the enemy. "It may be my turn tomorrow" you'll say to yourself..

The young men were now silent except for the one who first spoke "There must be something of nobility in fighting for your country?" he asked

The old man sighed an irritation evident in his voice "Please do not ask me that, you should have asked the boy next to me. The morning he came up to the front as a replacement for our losses. He was ‘given’ to me, I was an old hand, I was to look after him, show him the ropes. We sat and talked a while about home, family, and his life. I laughed a little – his life…….At seventeen, he is still a boy. The officers came to his factory one morning a month ago and told them all that work was over and that they were now soldiers. Outside the factory, was a truck filled with uniforms they were instructed to put on. It is the same uniform that I wear, but had spent years training to wear, was still training, always train......... always learn. By the act of putting on that uniform, it made them soldiers too. Ask him please; do not ask me though.

Whilst you are asking, look at his innocent young face. Look… see there, the small hole on the right side of his head; isn’t it strange how it could go almost unnoticed if it wasn’t for the matted blood in his hair?. I won’t look, I know that if I turned him over the right side of his head would be missing I’ve seen it hundreds of times. Besides, I’m too busy to stop and look. I’m still cleaning the bits of his brain that splashed over me when the un-aimed bullet that was fired in our direction from our dear neighbours crashed into his head; I nearly have my face clean now – nearly.
I wish I’d never heard him talk of home, it would be easier to deal with his death, now he has become a real person in my head he has joined with all the others that I once knew, the missing battalions of my friends. Sleep well my son, rest and be remembered.

The young men listening to the old man were serious themselves now, interested in and hanging on to the old mans words "Was there nothing, nothing worthwhile? Nothing heroic done?" “Nothing to be enjoyed?” they asked

"Yes of course there were". The old man snapped, again irritated by the question, then he relaxed and continued "I remember the little house behind the barracks, every barracks everywhere in the world has one. The first time you go in a boy, nervous worried, but still eager, you’ve been egged on by your comrades all day who themselves are too scared to go in, a drink for courage and after?, you come out a man. I also remember my leave, dreamt of it; it’s the only thing that kept me sane in that slaughterhouse......the only thing I had left to me that could not be stripped from me. Some times you went home from the front, but at the end it was five months since I last left the front and in all that time every day had had some fighting. An attack repulsed, or a mad charge to capture a piece of earth or an attempt to knock out one of the neighbour’s strong points or artillery positions, every day of that last six months someone died at my side……… or by my hand.

There is also the privilege of watching mere men do something extraordinarily super-human, a man who risks his own life for his comrades in arms. A man who at that particular moment in time, seems to have no sense of self, by whose actions he walks alongside god and in some ways is more worthy of the name. My friend Carl was one such man, Carl and I grew up together in our small town. We joined the army together, trained together, and marched to war together. But you don't want to hear about that…..it was so long ago....

From the look on the old mans face it was obviously something he didn’t wish to speak about, but the whole pub urged him to continue and eagerly another drink form the bar was placed in front of him.

"We were cut off and surrounded and we found ourselves defending a HQ with a mixed company…….. We were only equipped with light weapons, rifles… machine pistols and grenades. As if the situation was not desperate enough for us, two enemy tanks appeared. Carl volunteered to tackle them and vaulted a wall he only had a small anti tank rocket, he took aim and fired …but missed.
The first enemy tank turned on him and opened fire with its machine gun…. he was hit in the chest, but managed to make his way back to us, his comrades…., I remember he was furious at his failure, so furious that he snatched up another rocket and set off again despite his wound and my many attempts to dissuade him. The tanks were now alerted to both his presence and to his intentions and once again drove him back with machine gun fire. He knew however, that if he didn't stop them, we were all finished ….. So despite the machine gun fire he tried a third time …running forward... zigzagging to his target as he went - this time he'd taken a satchel charge with him. Somehow - I do not know how he reached the first tank unscathed - he placed the charge on its hull. He knew full well that to detonate the charge so close would probably mean the end of his life but he did it anyway. The charge exploded and the tank burst into flame. Moreover, I watched all this…..as the blast flung him away like a ragdoll to lie paralysed and in the excruciating pain because of his mutilated limbs”.

A tear rolled down the old man’s cheek, which he quickly wiped away with a gnarled finger…..for a while he was quiet, but no one in that pub said anything. The old man tried to speak again but only a muffled sob came from his mouth. Pulling himself together, the old man breathed in deeply, again he wiped his eyes before speaking this time slowly, quietly.

“In despair, he somehow found the strength to fire the rocket he’d also taken with him and he destroyed the second tank. ….Enemy infantry were following up the tank attack…..but without the support of the tanks we managed to drive them off with small arms fire…..… all the while Carl was dragging himself back towards us - his legs useless and……. a gaping hole in his chest. When he was close enough, we pulled him back into cover and summoned a medical orderly but nothing could be done for him…..other than to make him as comfortable as possible as his life ebbed away. I and a few others carried him to the shade of a tree in a small hollow and gently laid him down………” The old man sighed sadly, deeply again…….”Do you know what………... Despite his wounds……, he asked to be propped up so that he could see what was happening with the enemy attack………but the smoke and the flames obscured the scene. "Is it over?" he asked as I removed his helmet and gently laid him back down again - I used his gas mask container as a pillow…….. He then asked me for a cigarette, ……..which I lit and placed between his lips, he lay quiet and pulled deeply on that cigarette….. Then he turned to look at me with those thoughtful blue eyes of his and said "Say hello to my wife, and the little ones - and look after yourself" he closed his eyes, took one last breath and was still.”

There was complete silence in that little London pub, no-one knew what to say, all they could do was watch as the old man stood and drained the last of his drink. With a last look at the faces at his table he walked slowly to the door.....outside it was raining heavier and colder than before. The old man paused and pulled the collar of his jacket up round his neck, took out his cigarettes and his lighter, he was angry at his arthritic fingers…..as they struggled to get one out of the packet. He stopped and bent to light the cigarette and shielded it in his cupped hand as he did, as he had always done...Thousands of times before. 'not as cold as the Russian front' he thought to himself and smiled. Behind him, the pub remained silent.

Later that night The old man sank into a deep sleep and dreamed of his friend Carl, as he often did, even after all those years……, still young and still strong,. As he was before his life had ended.

Carl appeared to him in his dream...clean and his uniform pristine and sharp.

In his sleep, he could clearly see his face………those thoughtful blue eyes stared at him with a caring look..... but his uniform........ 'Strange why so clean with all this mud', his mind asked.......Carl smiled at the old man and stretched out his hand, the old man hesitated,....... behind Carl he could see others standing silently ..........other half remembered faces and names.......There.... the young boy who had died at his side – Dam….What was the boys name?.......There..........Lars,..... And Hals...and Georg and Ludwig ...and there…others he remembered. They were all there….....smiling. The old man was confused, a little scared even….., This wasn't like his normal dreams - they were ones of horror, death and destruction,........ this was different,........ calm peaceful and even nice....... slowly the old man reached out his own hand and took Carl's in his……… He looked down and was surprised at the clasped hands. He expected to see his old aged gnarled fingers in the hand of his friend, but the hands that he saw belonged to those of a much younger man, clad in a fresh new uniform of feld grau, the Das Reich Cuff Title proudly reflecting in the strange light that was present in this place.

They were his hands all right but as they had been all those years ago. Again, he looked around in a confused state. Amazed, he realised he could now see thousands of soldiers....... standing, some smiling at him, others looking to see who it was who was being greeted......... their uniforms were of many styles and many colours, the black, Feld grau of German soldiers yes...many of them...... but also uniforms of Blue….Brown…..Khaki…….Olive green....... Soldiers all but soldiers of many nations not just his own. Carl slowly turned and gently, slowly, he began to lead the old man away.....The old man, young again went willingly.

Wenn einer von uns mude wird, der andere fur ihn wacht-wenn.
Wenn einer von uns zweifeln will, der andere gläubig lacht-wenn einer von uns fallen sollt,
der andere steht fur zwei-Denn jedem Kämpfer gibt ein Gott den Kameraden bei.
English translation
When one of us is tired, the others will watch out for him.
When one of us is unsure, the others will cheer him on.
When one of us is killed in action, the other will represent two.
For every fighter there is a God, his comrades that are there.
Wenn einer von uns mude wird, der andere fur ihn wacht-wenn.
Wenn einer von uns zweifeln will, der andere gläubig lacht-wenn einer von uns fallen sollt,
der andere steht fur zwei-Denn jedem Kämpfer gibt ein Gott den Kameraden bei.
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Reich Crispies
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Re: Short story

Post by Reich Crispies »

Bloody Hell Dave!
Thats terrific. I never knew you had such talent.

With your permission, I would like to print it and frame it. OK?
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RudyWerner
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Re: Short story

Post by RudyWerner »

Thats one top notch bit of writing, very well done.
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Re: Short story

Post by Franz repper »

Good stuff we have that poem by Herbert Menzel (Gefallen 1945) on the home page of our unit website
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Peiper

Re: Short story

Post by Peiper »

Fantastic "Dracon" or should your name now be "Ernest Hemingway" :D

Regards Peiper :wink:
ssparatrooper
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Re: Short story

Post by ssparatrooper »

Mega!
Ernst
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Re: Short story

Post by Ernst »

An excellent read! Bravo!
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Draconhuegela
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Location: Lancashire

Re: Short story

Post by Draconhuegela »

Reich Crispies wrote:Bloody Hell Dave!
Thats terrific. I never knew you had such talent.

With your permission, I would like to print it and frame it. OK?
No worries

Glad it was well recieved !! :lol:

Looks like I'll have to start work on some more then !!!

They didn't know the nature of the monster they'd just released !!! :o
Wenn einer von uns mude wird, der andere fur ihn wacht-wenn.
Wenn einer von uns zweifeln will, der andere gläubig lacht-wenn einer von uns fallen sollt,
der andere steht fur zwei-Denn jedem Kämpfer gibt ein Gott den Kameraden bei.
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Jap!
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Location: Omagh, N. Ireland

Re: Short story

Post by Jap! »

Thats an excellent story!

well done


Jap!
SS-Oberschütze J. de Wit
7te Kompanie. II Batl. LSSAH

"Bewegung nach vorne schnellen, SG-Nord"

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Paulkd
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Re: Short story

Post by Paulkd »

I like that you have pulled several threads together in one story, the death of Emil Durr for example.
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Peiper

Re: Short story

Post by Peiper »

Hi kameraden :D
Ive dug up this old thread and thought i would have a go! :lol:
See what you think of my attempt. (lol)

THE LAST STAND.

The sweat soaked Grenadier sat slumped in the mud, his back against the battle scarred
PAK-38 and his dented helmet being used as a pillow, on his young face his eyelids fluttered,
he was exausted!
This was the third day now he had gone without proper rest, his eyes were closed but he
wasn't asleep, he couldn't afford that luxury, not yet anyway.

The soldiers eyes flickered open and he reached an oil streaked filthy hand over to a
discarded greatcoat which lay in a crumpled heap beside him, it wasn't his but belonged to a
fallen kamerad who lay nearby, he was the last survivor of his group, the rest had been killed
two days ago but he hadn't the strength or opportunity to bury them yet as the enemy were
still close by.

The Grenadier's soot streaked face creased into a grin after he had gone through the pockets
of the greatcoat, he had found what he had been looking for, some cigarettes!.
There was a crumpled packet of Juno's in one of the pockets, these and the greatcoat had
belonged to his fallen NCO Unterscharfuhrer Kruger who had been one of the last to get hit,
he could tell it was his as the shoulder straps were still attached.

The soldier emptied a cigarette out the packet and lit it with a lighter he had found the day
before, surprisingly it still worked, this was the first cigarette he had in two days, he hadn't
the time to look for any up until now.
He looked around the desolate place, it was still mild weather even now towards the end of
September, which was surprising especially considering where he was, for this was September
the 27th 1941 and the place was Old Mother Russia near some unknown village named
Lushno, a place forgotten until now that is!.

There seemed to be a strange lull which had gone on for the past few hours, it didn't look
good anyway, the Russians were up to something!
The Grenadier squinted across the steppe and saw the the burnt remains of the Soviet tanks
he had destroyed over the past few days, some still smouldering heaps of twisted iron.
There were a few dead Russian Infantrymen too lying dead on the battlefield, sprawled
motionless like sad mounds of humanity, he had killed these men himself when they had came
to see him off the other day, the Grenadier grinned at the recollection and patted the MP40 which
lay at his side, this had belonged to Kruger his NCO, his own weapon a Mauser had been destroyed
earlier on when their transporter, a Krupp Diesel had gone up when it took a direct hit!.

The squad had just finished digging in the anti-tank gun when the Soviets first appeared on the horizon,
the T34's or "Tea-wagons" as they called them then started to attack.

He remembered Kruger his Uschar saying " Now boys, don't forget when those Tea-wagons get here,
shoot em up the arse!"
This trick they learn't only too well because any hits on the front didn't serve them any purpose because
of the armoured glacis plate covering its front, the rear was the T34's only weakest point.
It was good advice, for the Grenadier had destroyed 11 tanks so far single handed but his good luck was
running out, for three days now the Reds had kept coming probing their defences but now the other gun
emplacements were all destroyed, he was on his own!.

The other detatchments had all bought it then the Russkies had turn on his squad, he was lucky, for at
the time the young Grenadier had been sent to fetch more ammunition when it happened, a direct hit and
the whole of his group wiped out, miraculously though the gun had like himself had escaped unscathed.
The Grenadier took a deep drag of his cigarette and glanced at the lead grey sky, would today be his turn
he wondered?, he reached up and grabbed the canteen above his head where it had been hung by its
strap on the PAK, this was the last of his water, he had collected all that was left and poured it into
one water bottle, he shook it, only half full, he would have to be carefull how much he drank, he took
a small sip instead and screwed back on the lid.

The soldier wiped his scum dried lips with the back of his hand and stood up, he thought he had heard a noise
in the distance, he was right it was getting more clearer now, it was a faint squeaking noise at first now he
could hear the dreaded sound of tank tracks clanking.
He frowned and flicked the cigarette butt onto the churned up earth and slowly started to get ready, the Grenadier
reached for the binoculars that had once belonged to his dead NCO and scanned the horizon. There were two of them,
T34's, rumbling forward, sure of victory, probably part of a recce group sent forward to test the defences, what was left
of them anyway, they would find him that was for sure, he changed the focus on the binoculars then the Grenadier had a
closer look at his adversaries, they slowly scuttled forward, both like some primevel monsters.

The soldier frowned and gritted his teeth then nodded, he knew what he had to do!.
He started to get the little gun ready, he had plenty of time yet, it would take the Tea-wagons at least 5 minutes to get
here at the speed they were going, he started to bring over some shells kicking the mound of spent ones out the way.
The Grenadier then prised the lid off another crate of A-P shells with his bayonet pushing the unopened boxes of High-
Explosive shells to one side, they weren't any use, only the Armour-piercing ones had any effect, although he would have
to start using the H-E shells pretty soon if help didn't arrive very shortly, he only had about eight A-P shells left, they
wouldn't last very long.

The young soldier mauled the shells into position, god how he ached, it felt like he has been run over by a tram, his hands
started to throb aswell, that was because they had been burnt manhandling the red hot empty cases out the gun breech,
the chain-mail loading gauntlets had been singed through ages ago and now hung from his wrists in shreds.
Still he wouldn't go without a fight, he had heard what the Ivans did to SS prisoners not to mention soldiers from the
Totenkopf Division the Unit which he belonged to.

The SS-Grenadier dropped the shells near the anti-tank gun so they could be reached easier when in the thick of it, he was
operating the PAK-38 on his own now so everything had to be to hand, twice now he had to manhandle the heavy gun
around himself to get it into position when the Russkies tried to outflank him.
He stood up and looked down at himself, he was filthy and his uniform was in tatters, it looked as if he had been dipped in
oil then crawled through a bog which more or less he had, his collar was hanging by a thread, most of his buttons were
missing from his tunic and his cherished Totenkopf cuffband was now hanging from his left cuff in shreds, even his boots
were on their last legs, his prized dice-beakers which once were polished like mirrors, now they had half the mud of the
Russian Steppe on them, most of the studs were missing and his right heel was hanging off, if only his old Drill Instructor
could see him now, he would have a heart attack!.

It seemed like decades ago when he had first sewed on that cufftitle but was only a few months since they came to this
godforsaken country in June when they had launched Operation Barbarossa, how different it was to the place where he
was first posted in 1940, which was France, that was a holiday camp compared to this place.
Suddenly the wind picked up and began howling across the Steppe cutting through the young soldiers sweat soaked combat
tunic, he remembered his camouflaged smock but this had been used as a pillow for one of his kameraden before he died,
he pulled on Uschar Kruger's blood splattered greatcoat instead.

The Grenadier glaced up, they were here, he crouched down behind the PAK and loaded one of the A-P shells into the
open breech and took aim, he had to do this by sighting down the cannon like a rifle barrel because he was working alone.
He adjusted the graduation wheel and squinted at the enemy tank a few hundred yards infront of him, he saw one of the
Tea wagons break right and try to outflank him like the others had done, the Grenadier took no notice of this and
concentrated on the one infront of him.

The Tea wagon was heading straight for him so shooting at the rear was out, he would have to aim at the broard tracks
instead which were churning the ground up on its approach, he would have to try and and disable the beast.
"Now" he said outloud, giving himself the order to fire, the Grenadier pulled the lanyard and the gun barrel belched out a
cloud of fire and smoke and spat its red hot projectile towards the unsuspecting target.

There was a howl and a screech of metal on metal, the PAK shell had hit its target but bounced off its front armour and
went flying off into oblivion.
"Scheissen!" the Grenadier hissed when he realised what had happened, he thumped the PAK's front shield in inpotent
rage, he quickly unloaded the spent shell and quickly put in a new one before the shaken Russian tank crew got their
wits together.
The anti-tank man pulled the lanyard a second time just as the T34 was trying to turn round, it looked as if they had
enough for one day but the Grenadier wasn't going to let them off that easy besides they would be back and probably in
force.

The little PAK fired a second time, this time its shell had hit its mark!, "Bingo" the gunner cried enthusiastically.
The projectile crashed into the side of the Soviet tank just as it was trying to turn round and hit its tracked wheels with
a hollow clang and exploded with bright red explosion, already the ashen faced Russian tank crew were abandoning there
stricken vehicle as the flames on the side of the tank licked higher.

Quickly the Grenadier turned his attention to the other tank just as it started to disapear behind a small earth work mound,
then as it reapeared and tried to traverse a marsh it got stuck and tried to reverse, this is where the others got stuck and
their burnt carcasses still lay either side. This tank however was quicker off the mark, it shot into reverse at top speed,
the Grenadier could hear its gears whinning as it backed out of the bog, obviously the Tank Commander had seen the
twisted wrecks nearby like a Tank's graveyard and didn't want to join their fate!

This is what the gunner was waiting for, as soon as the T34 was free from the marsh it started to turn round, fatal mistake,
the Grenadier pulled on his lanyard a third time, this time he did not miss either, the red hot shell bored into the Tanks rear
like a knife through hot butter, then suddenly there was an almighty explosion as both the PAK shell and the T34 rear fuel
tanks went up in a sheet of flame, this time though no crew escaped, the gunner could just see one figure stuck in the
T34's hatchway deperately trying to escape, but there was no way out of that inferno, the Tank continued burning like a
funeral pyre and then the figure disapeared from view.

Just then he heard the rattle of machine gun fire, there was no mistaking that sound, it was an Popov PPSH, the Grenadier
instinctively ducked down behind the anti tank gun as another hail of machine gun bullets rattled against the PAK's front
shield like a tropical storm on an old tin roof, he rolled to one side grabbing the MP40 as he did so and slid into a nearby
water filled ditch.

The two Russians moved forward slowly towards the PAK obviously to finish off any survivors, the Grenadier squinted at
them from the cover of his ditch, the words of his now dead NCO, Uschar Kruger still ringing in his ears as he thrusted his
Machine pistol in the young Grenadiers hands before he died of his wounds.
"Christen, take as many with you as you can, make the Reds pay!"
He certainly would, there was no way they were going to take him prisoner, and he wasn't doing this for any bits of tin or
to "cure his throatache" as the SS say, no he was doing this merely to stay alive!

The Russians moved closer towards the bodies of the Germans cautiously, Christen scrutinized them, they were the Tank
crewmen from the T34 he had put out of action moments before, the Russians grew braver when they realised the men
were dead, they began kicking Christens dead crew mates, one hawked and spat and said with a grin "Germanski kaputt!".
This made the Grenadier see red and he sprang up from his water filled ditch like some avenging angel covered in filthy
slime and stood there legs apart with the Mpi at the ready.

The two Russians stood stock still like they had been turned to stone, their jaws dropped open then suddenly they rocketed
backwards like on a steel spring as Christen opened fire with his borrowed MP40, discharging a full magazine at the two
surprised Russians, they then slammed to the churned up earth like sacks of coal.

Christen glanced round at the disabled Tea wagon, where these men have appeared from there could be others, he
grabbed his binoculars and scanned the tank in the distance, there where a few Ivans milling about around the T34 like
headless chickens, it looked like they had put the fire out but were now trying to repair the broken track.

The Grenadier frowned at this, he couldn't let that happen otherwise next time he might not be so lucky, especially now
they knew he was here, Christen threw the machine pistol and binoculars to one side, he knew what had to be done!, he
then went over to the PAK, slowly and purposely this time, his aching body and burnt hands forgotten.

Christen reloaded the gun, this time with H-E, he would finish the Popov's hash for them, he aimed not at the tank but at
the crew this second time around, they were all busy fixing the busted track and took no notice at what was going on over
here, more than likely they think their two comrades who they had sent over earlier had finished off any survivors.

"Feuer!" he shouted out loud when he was ready, the Ivans must've heard him because they all looked round when the little
PAK-38 opened fire.
The shell exploded with a roar throwing all the Russian tank men up into the air on the tip of a giant orange explosion,
Christen didn't even bother to look at them, he had to get ready incase any more turn up to investigate, in the meantime
he helped himself to what the Russian crewmen were carrying and started to go through their pockets and havasacks.
He found a few hunks of stale bread, an opened packet of Russian Makhorka cigarettes and a waterbottle half filled with
Vodka, Christen grinned, that should keep him going for a while.

He started to eat the bread straight away as he had finished off his own and his dead crewman's rations the day before
and was ravenous, he had just lit one of the Russian cigarettes when he heard a noise again in the distance, the Grenadier
shook his head, "Here we go again!", he thought, he had destroyed now at least 13 tanks single handed and god knows how
many soldiers, there seemed no end to them, his good luck couldn't hold out forever!
Christen slowly picked up the binoculars again and peered out over the terrain, he couldn't believe his own eyes, he
re-focused the field glasses for a closer look, then he recognised the insignia crudely painted on one of the turrets of the
tanks that was rumbling towards him, it was a skull and crossbones, there was no mistaking that!
Christen gave a broard grin, it was Eicke's boys, reinforcements were on their way, his last stand was over!.

THE END.

Hope you enjoyed my little story, it was my version of the epic "Last stand" battle involving SS-Sturmmann Fritz Christen
of the SS Totenkopf and what happened near the little village of Lushno in Russia on the dates 24th-27th Sept 1941, and
was where Christen for his actions was awarded the Knights Cross.

Regards Peiper :wink:
Peiper

Re: Short story

Post by Peiper »

The "real" SS-Sturmann Fritz Christen of the SS-Totenkopf Division
Fritz Christen.jpg
Fritz Christen.jpg (11.46 KiB) Viewed 9666 times
totenkopf_oberschutze_Fritz_Christe.jpg
totenkopf_oberschutze_Fritz_Christe.jpg (22.1 KiB) Viewed 9666 times
Peiper 8)
Peiper

Re: Short story

Post by Peiper »

Thought i would ressurrect this post for people who haven't seen it, have re-read my "story" and was quite entertained lol,
is anybody else a "budding-Hemmingway" lol, post your stories that only you have invented/thought up on here :D

Good writing, Peiper :wink:
User avatar
Panzer212
Posts: 143
Joined: Sat Sep 25, 2010 6:39 pm
Location: United States

Re: Short story

Post by Panzer212 »

In the first story I thought the "old man" was a British veteran. Finding that he was German was a real suprise to me! Great story!
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A.Weiss
Posts: 374
Joined: Wed May 14, 2008 5:27 pm

Re: Short story

Post by A.Weiss »

Thanks Kamerade Peiper,for sharing history. :)

A.Weiß
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