Battle of Lyuban¹, Opening Moves

(Source)

"So that's it, Tovarishchi,² we have no tanks, we have damned little in the way of artillery support, and as for our brave comrades in the Red Air Force, nothing there either." Majór Ivan Filippovich Telitsyn looked at the men huddled in the ruined factory listening to his little "pep talk." He noted that they were keeping their faces neutral. All had lived in Soviet Russia long enough to know that to express any negative attitudes would draw the ire of the Politruk³, Lev Dmitrievich Svalov. Expressing a positive attitude would draw ridicule from one's fellow soldiers.

"Best to just sit back and take it all in," Mládshiy serzhánt Ustin Rodionovich Kazankov had told his boys, "watch and learn, that's my philosophy."

Efréĭtor Nazar Danylovych Petrenko nodded sagely when this wisdom was imparted to the platoon. He and Antonyuk were Ukrainians, the other old hands - Bezrodny, Beriya, and Berezhnoy - were ethnic Russians. The new kids, seventeen of them, all seemed to be Russian.

Petrenko hadn't bothered asking them their names, if they survived the next few days, then maybe he would ask. But for now, they were just bodies carrying rifles. One kid had tried to introduce himself to Beriya, and had been told in no uncertain terms to keep his mouth shut.

"You're probably going to die tomorrow, why should I care who you are? If you survive, then I'll ask you your name. Maybe." Beriya had then turned and gone back to cleaning his rifle. The new kid, Yaroslav Vladislavovich Spravtsev, had a look on his face like a sad puppy.

No one cared.

Leutnant Jürgen von Lüttwitz looked at each of his non-commissioned officers before starting to talk. It was cold, it was snowing, they had yet to be issued their winter clothing, and rations were once again slow getting to the forward trenches. Other than that, the men seemed to be in good spirits.

"So, the regimental staff has indications that the Ivans are going to launch an offensive to try and break the siege. Units from within Leningrad and from without are going to try and link up. Our job is simple, stop them."

Obergefreiter Alois Steppuhn, leader of the mortar section, raised a hand, when von Lüttwitz nodded at him, he asked, "Do we have a plan in place for how we're to stop them."

Unterfeldwebel Georg Hansen, the platoon sergeant, spoke up, "Why you kill them, that's the long and the sort of it, Junge. Kill them before they kill you."

The other men all nodded, a few chuckled.

"Though Hansen's answer is somewhat simplistic," he grinned at Hansen, "he is right, we just have to hold our positions. We have ample ammunition, our artillery is well-supplied, and the Luftwaffe might even show up, if it ever stops snowing."

"Regiment thinks they may hit us at nightfall, I don't think they will, but if I were them, that's when I'd attack. But they aren't very good at attacking, they will defend until their last breath, but in the attack they are very cumbersome. Attacking at night would make things worse for them."

So of course, after it got dark, the Russians attacked.

Krasnoarmeyets Prokhor Ivanovich Komarov was scared witless, he was new to the front. Six weeks before he had been on a collective farm well to the east of Moscow. Now he was running towards the German lines in the dark.

The men had been ordered to advance quietly, but as they moved forward, they began to run. Running made lots of noise, but the Germans remained silent. Komarov began to think that maybe, just maybe, the Germans weren't paying attention.

Then he heard a pop, followed by a whistling noise, he looked up to see a streak of fire heading to the heavens. Moments later it burst, it was a parachute flare. Komarov thought it looked pretty, he was entranced by the way the shadows shifted and danced as the flare swung back and forth.

Then the tracer fire began.

"Feuer!" von Lüttwitz barked. It was hardly necessary, his men were veterans and they had opened fire shortly after the flare had lit the landscape. Though they weren't clear, he could see the huddled forms of men rushing towards the line. More and more of them were falling as the tracers intercepted their shadowy forms.

The screams began shortly thereafter.

Mortar bombs began falling among the advancing Soviets, Komarov kept advancing, if he could get into the German trench then maybe he would survive. But that was looking less and less likely.

He stumbled and fell into a shell hole, half filled with snow he hadn't noticed it in the flickering shadows of the German parachute flares. They seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of them. It felt relatively safe inside the hole, he shouldered his rifle and aimed in the general direction of the German lines. Before he could fire, someone kicked him.

"On your feet, Comrade, we can't stop and fire or the attack will bog down."

Komarov turned but could only see a shadow in the night, then another flare popped and he was looking into the face of the Politruk. The man's pistol was drawn and it was aimed at Komarov's face.

"I will not ask you again, Comrade. On your feet, continue the attack!"

Komarov began to scramble to his feet, just then a mortar bomb landed, very close. The Politruk's eyes went blank, then the man dropped to his knees and fell forward into the shell hole. Komarov realized that the man was dead, his back shredded.

Without thinking, Komarov ran back towards the Soviet lines. To continue would be insane!

Unteroffizier Paul Niehaus was covering his MG 34 crew as they swapped out barrels. They had fired so many rounds that the first barrel was starting to glow. He had had to slap the gunner to get him to cease fire and change barrels. They had to keep the rounds flying downrange or the Ivans would get into the trenches.

There seemed to be thousands of them, Niehaus was staring to worry about holding them, when, from far in the rear, the German artillery began shelling no-man's-land.

Komarov stopped when the artillery began to fall all around him. A flash from one burst revealed another shell hole. There, looking up like rats trapped in a burning building was the rest of his platoon.

"Get in here kid before you get blown to bits!" his sergeant, Kazankov, was screaming at him and waving him into the shell hole. Komarov didn't hesitate very long before flinging himself into the meager shelter.

Efréĭtor Petrenko pulled Komarov in, "Decided to go for a stroll, kid? Germans scare you away?"

Komarov stuttered as he related watching the Politruk get shredded by a mortar round, "He, he, he, f-f-fell like a rag d-d-doll, as if his soul f-f-flew from him in an instant!"

Petrenko laughed, "Ha, that's rich, 'the Politruk's soul.' Kid, Politruks are all atheists, they don't have souls. When they die they go straight down to Hell. Heh, souls!"

Though the Soviet attack was faltering, one group managed to break into the German lines, the section held by von Lüttwitz's 3rd Squad under Unterfeldwebel Leo Klempner.

Klempner emptied his MP 40 at the men rushing into the trench. The only reason they had gotten that far was that their MG 34 had jammed. Klempner reached for another magazine, he saw the Russian bayonet aimed at his groin, but there was nothing he could do. Though he swung his weapon to try and deflect the blade, he was only partially successful.

Gefreiter Jörg Straube and his assistant gunner, Schütze Alex Winzer, finally cleared the jam and fired a long burst into the attacking Soviets. Straube grunted as he heard Klempner's MP 40 start firing again, not knowing that it wasn't Klempner firing it.

In the confusion one of the riflemen, Schütze Gustav Hengsbach had snatched up the MP 40 as it fell from Klempner's hand. Though the sergeant had managed to insert a new magazine, he had needed both hands to stop the bleeding from where the bayonet had pierced his side.

The Russian who had bayoneted Klempner smiled widely as he withdrew the blade and drew it back to stab the German on the ground once more. His smile faded as Hengsbach fired the MP 40 directly into the man's chest.

The Soviets were driven back, but at the cost of two dead, Schützen Stauffer and Cranz, and two wounded, Klempner and Schütze Rickenbacher. Klempner was badly wounded. "Bleeding like  a stuck pig," Hengsbach muttered.

The cries for the Sanitäter started as the attack stalled and the enemy began to fall back.

After the collapse of their attack, the Soviets regrouped back at their starting point, there were a lot fewer of them than earlier that night.

"Casualties?" Majór Telitsyn asked Kazankov.

"All of the new kids save two, don't know their names yet. But fifteen dead or missing, by my count."

Petrenko spoke up, "Spravtsev and Komarov, they're the kids who survived."

"You actually know their names?" Kazankov asked, rather in amazement.

"Sure, there's only two of 'em now, easier to remember. Besides they survived, means at the very least that they're lucky. Who knows, they might make good soldiers.

"You're a hard bastard, Petrenko." Telitsyn commented.

"I'll take that as a compliment, Comrade Major."

"And a cheeky bastard as well."

Turning to Kazankov Telitsyn said, "Get some rest and some food, if you can find any. The attack coming out of the city didn't get far, but we're trying again tomorrow afternoon."

"Replacements?" Kazankov asked.

"Who knows?" Telitsyn shrugged, "Rumor has it that a new division is moving up, that might help. Maybe replacements too."

"More f**king kids, no doubt." Petrenko said, bitterly.

Telitsyn gave the Ukrainian corporal a hard look, "We'll probably get a new Politruk as well, so watch your mouth, Comrade Petrenko."

Nodding, Petrenko said, "Da, Tovarishch Majór. But does it really matter who kills me, the Germans or the Party? I'm still dead."

Shaking his head, Telitsyn walked away, "Get some rest boys. I'll try and find something for you to eat. Maybe to drink as well."

¹ The Lyuban offensive operation was conducted by the Volkhov and Leningrad Fronts of the Red Army with the goal of relieving the siege of Leningrad and encircling and destroying the German forces carrying out the siege. (Source)

² Anglicized spelling of the Russian word for "Comrades" (Товарищи).

³ Political Leader