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

Aftermath

(Source¹)

As the aircraft touched down, Fehrenbach surveyed the damage wrought by the P-40s. It didn't seem too bad at first, but when they got to the taxiway they had taken off from, he could see at least three burning Stukas and a couple that had gone off into the rocks and dirt lining the sides of the airfield. There was also a burning fuel bowser, which even he knew might be critical. Fuel was always at a premium in the desert.

"It's hard to believe that just a few enemy aircraft did this much damage." Wolfram said over the intercom.

Wolfram saw a ground crewman directing him where to park his aircraft, it was inside one of the partially constructed sandbag revetments. Once the aircraft was inside, he chopped the throttle and turned off the fuel cock.

As he often did after a mission, he sat there, watching the propeller slowly come to a stop, letting his mind wander over the events of the past few minutes. When he looked at his wristwatch, he realized that from the time they had begun to taxi until now was slightly over 45 minutes. It felt much longer.

He pulled back the cockpit hood, the first thing he noticed was the smell of burning things - fuel, rubber, aluminum, human flesh. He had smelled it all before and he was still not used to it.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned around suddenly, startling his ground crew chief, Gefreiter Hollenbeck. "Sorry Klaus, you startled me."

"The Gruppenkommandeur² wants all aircrew in the maintenance tent in thirty minutes. Word is, we're moving again."

"Forwards? Back to Sicily?"

"Sorry Ernst, I don't know, Göring³ no longer confides in me."

Wolfram couldn't help but grin as Hollenbeck helped him with his straps, "Sorry old boy, but you've quite a mess to clean up in the gunner's seat."

But Fehrenbach had already climbed out of his position and he told Hollenbeck, "I'll clean it up, I puked, not you."

"It's all right kid, you're aircrew, you're going to be busy over the next hour or so, when we service your bird, we'll clean it up as well. Next time, be careful what you eat for breakfast, certain foods ..."

Fehrenbach smiled, "Got it, Danke, Herr Gefreiter."

"Klaus out here, call me Gefreiter in the mess, or if the big shots are around, out here, we're all one happy family."

Fehrenbach smiled, this operational thing wasn't bad, well, when the enemy wasn't trying to kill you it wasn't too bad.

A Scottish trench mortar crew marching to a firing position, Egypt, 4 June 1940.
(Source)

Krige came to a small dune, he swore he could smell the sea⁴ on the wind. He also heard vehicular traffic, so he crouched down as he approached the top of the dune. He went flat when he saw a truck pulled over with a group of infantry around it. As everyone in the desert seemed to prefer the same khaki colored clothing, it was tough to tell at a distance who was who.

The he noticed the very typical British helmet, so he slowly stood up.

"Hey chaps, glad I found you!" Krige advanced slowly, waving his arms and speaking English.

One of the infantrymen, a sergeant, turned and aimed his Lee-Enfield at Krige. "'Old it right there, mate!"

Krige, puzzled, did as he was told.

"Get yer 'ands up, ye Jerry bastid."

As the men advanced towards him, Krige realized that his flying kit, khaki colored, flying helmet, life vest, probably didn't look much different from what the German and Italian aircrews wore. He offered, "I'm South African lads, crashed my kite back there in the desert." He gestured behind him as he said that.

For his troubles he was poked in the belly with the muzzle of the sergeant's rifle. "'Old still, ye Jerry bastid."

Krige flushed, he was most emphatically not German, but his accent made him sound foreign to these men, who from their chatter he surmised were Australians. So he tried another approach.

"Look cobber, I've had a long walk, I could use a lager and a bath. I tell you, I'm an Allied pilot, South African, we speak Afrikaans and English."

"Well, innit that bloody amusing, 'ey lads?" The sergeant laughed as he turned to his men.

"Sergeant!"

Krige breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the shout of what could only be an officer.

"Sah!" All of the infantrymen snapped to attention, though the sergeant kept his eyes on Krige.

"What have we got here, Sergeant Masterson?

"Jerry pilot, Sir. claims he's South African, but he sounds like a Jerry."

"Quite."

Turning to Krige, the officer asked, "Waar kom jy vandaan?⁵"

Krige smiled and said, in English, "I'm from Pietermaritzburg, Sir."

"Very good, do you need a lift?"

"Yes Sir, I was on a raid this morning which shot up a Stuka base near Derna, got surprised and had to put my aircraft down on a salt flat, not too far from here."

"Right, Sergeant Masterson, let's load this lad up and take him down to Tobruk," Turning to Krige he said, "Good enough for you?"

"Beats walking, Sir. And thanks."

The assembled aircrew all snapped to attention when the Gruppenkommandeur, Major Artur Klemenz, an Austrian, entered the tent.

"At ease boys, I've got good news, and I've got bad news."

A groan issued from the crowd.

"The good news is we're going back to Sicily where we'll get replacement aircraft and crews. We should be there for at least two months. Generalfeldmarschall Rommel has been held up by logistics and the Italian High Command, for the moment. He expects reinforcements over the next few months."

A number of smiles were seen in the crowd at that news.

"Now the bad news is that we're going to hit a British convoy on the way to Sicily, then we'll be flying maritime missions and missions against Malta while we build back up again. I expect we'll be back here, in the desert, which I know you all love," groans from the crowd, "by summer."

"We have a group of transports flying in to transport equipment and ground personnel, along with those aircrew who have no aircraft, to Sicily. Those will have an escort of Me 109s. I expect that our remaining aircraft attacking the convoy will keep the British busy."

"Full briefing at 1400, headquarters wants us in the air by 1700. The convoy is trying to sneak into Tobruk at dusk. We shall see they receive a warm reception. Staffelkapitäne⁶, stick around after this meeting, we need to juggle some of the flights."

As they walked back to their aircraft, Fehrenbach asked, "What's Sicily like, Ernst?"

"It's nice, the food is good, the wine is better."

"And the women?"

"Ah, you need to be careful there, Junge. Sicilian families are very protective of their womenfolk. But the women are amazing. You'll see. But their fathers and brothers? As dangerous as a Spitfire or Hurricane on your tail."

"I see."

"A question Uwe. Where are you from?"

"The Rhineland, just outside Köln."

"Catholic?"

"Aber natürlich."

"So are the Sicilians, play your cards right ..."

As they prepared their aircraft for the bombing raid on the convoy, then the flight to Sicily, Fehrenbach couldn't stop grinning.

Hollenbeck noticed and took Wolfram aside, "Why'd you get the boy's hopes up, Ernst? He might not live long enough to get to Sicily, many of us might not."

Wolfram shook his head, "For now he's got something to look forward to, something to live for. Should I take that away from him, Klaus?"

"You're right. Now make me feel better, I'll be riding in a damn Tante Ju⁷. Hanging out there for any Tommy fighter pilot with a machine gun to send into the sea."

Wolfram shook his head, "Klaus, you worry too much. You sound like my mother."

Hollenbeck just looked at the pilot, then said, "You be f**king careful out there, bring my crate home in one piece, neh?"

"I will, Klaus, if it's in my power, I will. After all, young Fehrenbach needs to experience Sicily before he dies, yes?"

¹ Go read the article at that source, very interesting.

² Group Commander, this was a position title, not a rank. Each Luftwaffe wing (Geschwader- commanded by a Geschwaderkommodore) had three or more Gruppen (groups- each commanded by a Gruppenkommandeur), within each Gruppe there were three to four Staffeln (squadrons- each commanded by a Staffelkapitän). A Staffel had nine to twelve aircraft assigned.

³ Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring, chief of the Luftwaffe.

⁴ Most landsmen, when near the coast think that what they are smelling is the sea, it's actually the smell of the land beside the sea, especially the marshes and other places along the coast. Sailors say that it's the smell of the land. So I've been told.

⁵ Where are you from? (Afrikaans)

⁶ Squadron commanders

⁷ German nickname for the Ju 52 transport. "Aunt Ju," Ju for Junkers.

The New Kid

(Source)

Flieger Uwe Fehrenbach climbed out of the captured British car the squadron used to haul aircrew from the dispersal hut to the aircraft parking area. He noticed that ground crewmen were busy building sand-bagged revetments around each aircraft. He had asked about that, the crusty old Feldwebel who ferried the crews back and forth had a ready answer.

"The Tommies are getting a lot more active what with the Amis in the war now, they're getting all sorts of new kit. The Amis aren't ready to fight, not when they can give the Tommies stuff and let them do the dying."

Fehrenbach wasn't sure what the old Unteroffizier was talking about, but as they drove past two wrecked aircraft (one Stuka and one Ju 52 transport), he realized that how those aircraft got destroyed, and who destroyed them, was rather immaterial. All he knew was that he was assigned to a Stuka as the gunner, his pilot was a long time veteran, and he was in the African desert, whether he liked it or not.

"Here you go, Junge. Hals-und beinbruch!¹"

Fehrenbach got out of the car, grabbed his gear and gave the driver a puzzled look as that man drove off, laughing. He then turned and walked towards the aircraft, noting that there was a man, smoking a cigarette and wearing a pith helmet, leaning against the starboard wing, giving him a hard-eyed stare.

"Excuse me, have you seen a Feldwebel Wolfram around?"

"Only when I look in the mirror, you must be Fehrenbach." The man tossed his cigarette to the ground, where he ground it into the dirt with the heel of his flying boot, then walked to Fehrenbach, his hand extended.

Fehrenbach snapped to attention when he realized he was talking to a non-commissioned officer. "Flieger Uwe Fehrenbach, Herr Feldwebel, reporting for duty!"

Wolfram smiled, then said, "At ease, Junge, you're not at the training camp anymore" His hand was still extended.

Fehrenbach, somewhat flustered, tried to put his flying kit down, only to manage to dump it unceremoniously into the dirt, then hurriedly took Wolfram's hand. "Sehr angenehm, Herr Feldwebel.²"

"Sorry, Sir, let me get that ..."

"It's alright lad, let me show you around the aircraft, you have seen a Stuka before, yes?"

"Not this close, Herr Feldwebel."

Wolfram shook his head, some of the new recruits they were getting were obviously being rushed through training. No doubt all the flyable Ju 87s were at the front. So the Luftwaffe had to make due with other methods of training their gunners.

"What did you train on?"

"The He 111, Herr ..."

"Enough with the rank, Junge, my name's Ernst. If there are officers around, sure, we'll use our ranks, but out here, and in the air, we need to trust each other. First names only, got it, Uwe?"

"Aber natürlich, Herr ... I mean Ernst."

Wolfram chuckled and said, "Let's get you settled in, we're taking off in an hour or so, target is still socked in by blowing sand. It usually clears up fairly quickly, unless it doesn't."

To assuage Fehrenbach's puzzled look, Wolfram said, "The desert, it's fickle, and it wants to kill you, but if you respect it, well, let's just say we get a bit of wind now and again, it kicks up the sand. Especially along the coast. Only in the big sandstorms does it last for longer than an hour or so. Those are called khamsin, which is an Arab word for fifty. Normally those occur over a fifty day period in the spring, we're not there yet, but we still get winds off the Med which tends to blur the air, if you get what I mean."

Fehrenbach clearly did not get it, but figured that he eventually would. If he lived long enough that is, he knew of Stuka crew losses over Britain. He had applied for the Ju 88, got Ju 87s instead. Typical of his luck, he supposed.

Sergeant Pilot Christiaan Krige listened intently as the flight commander briefed them on the day's target. They wouldn't be flying top cover today, they were detailed to hit a German base not far from the front lines, which were moving daily. Krige had flown ground attack missions before, a nasty business if you asked him.

"So that's it lads, we come in from the sea, hit the Jerries as they're arming up, we hope, then head back home. All nice and neat, shouldn't have any problem with ack-ack, the gunners will be looking to the east, not the north. At least we hope so, right?"

Though the captain smiled when he said that, he only received a few nervous chuckles from the assembled pilots. German anti-aircraft fire was nothing to sneeze at, and the men knew it. The captain was new to this theater and hadn't flown a mission yet.

Krige smirked and thought, he'll learn or he'll die. Maybe both. As for him, he'd prefer to keep Mama Krige's boy alive a little longer.

Mediterranean coast of Libya
(Source)

The flight of South African p-40s came in from the sea. They were low, low enough that as they crossed the coast, Krige could see a herd of goats scurrying out of their path, the goatherd furious and shaking his fist at the South African aircraft. It would take some time to gather those frightened beasts up again.

Krige was watching his flight lead, they were now flying in a formation similar to what the Germans used, a flight of four spread out like the fingers of one's hand, not the three ship Vic of the pre-war years. He was flying off Blue Lead's right wing, the number two position. As he watched, he saw Flight Lieutenant Pietersen pump his fist then thrust it to his front.

On that signal the other aircraft slid out to put more distance between each aircraft, allowing the flight to cover more area. Within moments, there was the German base just outside Derna, and they were in luck, there was at least a squadron of Ju 87s in the process of launching a strike.

"Ernst! Enemy aircraft coming in!" Fehrenbach had done well in the aircraft recognition portion of his training, he recognized the P-40s almost as soon as they came in sight.

"Scheiße!" was the only response Wolfram offered as he began to accelerate. Though they were still on the designated taxiway, it wasn't much different than the actual runway. He had plenty of room to take off and he'd rather take his chances in the air than on the ground.

Not a hundred meters ahead of him was Gottfried's aircraft, he had to pull back on the throttle as the man was weaving all over the taxiway. What was he thinking?

Krige couldn't believe his luck, when he popped up over the slight ridge between the sea and the base he saw that he was lined up on a taxiway, which was packed with taxiing aircraft. He hardly had to aim at all.

He triggered his guns and saw one of the bent winged birds suddenly collapse as its left main gear was hit. The bird slewed off the runway and burst into flames. He saw tracers streaking past his aircraft now, so he started to jink.

Though it tended to throw his aim off, he triggered his guns again, just a short 2 second burst. Another Stuka on the taxiway suddenly jerked to the right as there was now a dead hand on the controls.

As he prepared to pull off and clear the area, he saw an anti-aircraft gun just ahead, mounted on some sort of vehicle. There he was, there it was, so he fired another short burst.

As he flashed over the ack-ack vehicle he had the joy of seeing its crew scatter, those that were still capable of moving anyway. He had glimpsed at least two men slumped over the gun.

"Hang on, Junge! Things are about to get rough!"

As he said that, loud enough that Fehrenbach heard him over the noise of the engine, he slammed the throttle all the way forward. Pulling back on the stick he just barely cleared the burning wreckage of Von Kleppe's aircraft.

He was hunched over in the cockpit, as if that would save him if some Tommy got him under his guns. But it was a natural instinct to do that. Make yourself as small as possible, then just fly the aircraft.

Which he did. He stayed low, the Stuka wasn't much of a threat in an air combat role, but what choice did he have?

As he cleared the perimeter of the airfield, still no more than 50 meters above the undulating desert floor, he pulled up and released his bombs at the same time, sending them on an arc into the empty desert.

Rolling level and pushing the nose forward again, he felt his bird accelerate. Off his left shoulder, he could see clouds of smoke rising from the base.

"Uwe! You still with me?"

"Jawohl, Ernst, though my breakfast is all over the place back here!"

"Sorry, Junge. See any Indianer?³"

"There's nothing back here, no, wait, there's something, yes, two aircraft coming our way. I don't think they see us!"

"How's your oil pressure, Stiaan?"

Krige was trying to guess the extent of the damage to Sergeant Van Heerdens' aircraft. Other than a thin trail of black smoke coming from the engine cowling, he saw nothing else. Until he let his aircraft slide back some.

The elevators on Van Heerdens' P-40 were shot to hell. He had passed nearby the ack-ack gun which Krige had shot up, they had managed to put at least one 20 mm round into Van Heerdens' engine and, from the look of it, had shot up the tail of his aircraft.

"Oil pressure is dropping, oil temperature is climbing, I think I took a hit in the oil system. Controllability is sloppy. I can't really climb or dive, the elevators feel like they're not there."

Krige thought for a moment, if Van Heerdens cut his throttle, he could coast in and land his crippled aircraft, maybe. Scanning ahead, Krige saw a long strip of land, seemingly flat, maybe two miles ahead.

"Stiaan, do you see that flat stretch ahead?"

"Ja⁴, I see it. Are we near the lines?" Van Heerdens didn't fancy spending the remainder of the war as a German prisoner.

"I don't know, might be, things are pretty fluid right now. If I were you, I'd set her down before she quits on you."

Krige swore he heard a sigh over the R/T, then he was jolted back to reality when tracers began to hit Van Heerdens' aircraft.

Fehrenbach triggered his gun as the enemy plane flew into his sights. He could barely miss at this range. He could see impacts all over the Kittyhawk. Before he could adjust his aim, the other P-40 had flashed past them.

"Stiaan, do you hear me?"

Krige couldn't fathom what had just happened, the tracers had come from in front of them, not from behind. Was there an ack-ack battery down there?

As he thought this, he throttled up, he was going to make a wide turn then go back. Whatever had riddled Van Heerdens' aircraft was probably still there!

Wolfram couldn't believe his eyes as an enemy P-40 flashed overhead, then settled directly in front of him. He reacted quickly and triggered his dual MG 17s, one mounted in each of the Stuka's wings. He had used them to strafe but had never used them against an aerial target. He saw the aircraft ahead stagger, then begin to fall.

"Keep your eyes open Junge, we're heading home, if there's anything left. By the way, nice shooting!"

Krige winced as he ran his right hand down his left arm. He had felt something like a hot poker score his forearm, he was hit, as was his aircraft.

Looking in his rear view mirror, he felt nauseated,

"I've just been shot down by a f**king Stuka!" He screamed at the world.

Within minutes he had managed to bring his dying Kittyhawk down on that level area he had seen from the air. Where he had hoped his friend Van Heerdens could have put down.

He had tried two more times to raise the other pilot on the R/T, in vain. As his aircraft bumped and rolled, the right gear snapped off. ending his landing abruptly.

He quickly cleared the wreckage and ran away from it, unsure how badly shot up it was. As he turned, he heard a "wumpff" and sadly watched as fire spread over the airframe. I guess she was hit pretty bad, he thought.

Looking to the west, he saw a column of black smoke along his flight path. No doubt that was Van Heerdens' aircraft. He began to wonder if his friend had made it out in time⁵.

Shaking his head, he began to walk towards where he assumed the coast was. He'd rather be a prisoner of war than die in this merciless desert.

¹ "Break a leg. (Literally "Break your neck and a leg," it being bad luck to wish someone good luck in the Luftwaffe.)

² Very pleased (to meet you) or delighted (to meet you).

³ Luftwaffe pilots referred to hostile fighters as "Indianer," Indians. (The North American kind.)

⁴ "Yes" in Afrikaans is the same as in German.

⁵ He did not, Fehrenbach's first burst had killed him instantly.

A little hot summer, out in the sun...But...Fun!

 OK, we're in double digits of the number of days where the high temperature is in Triple digits.  Highest I've seen is 121.  But at least the humidity is high-ish.  (45% humidity with a high of 121 is...well...uncomfortable.)  Unfortunately, the rain gods have not gotten around to lowering the humidity by raining some of that water vapor out of the air.  Grass is pretty brown around here.  Which raises the chance of a four letter F-word substantially.

No, Beans, get your mind out of the gutter! That particular F-word is "Fire".

There have been  a few, but the Fire Departments in the area have managed to control them fairly quickly.

Lord, please let THAT trend continue!

One of the benefits of triple digits, is the grapes in the vineyards in the area are ripening fairly early this year. And because of the drought, the quality of the juice, I've been told, is very concentrated so, very good. So, my winemaker friends at Texas Hills Vineyard are a bit excited over that.

 But, our traveling buddies, who also happen to be those winemakers, have a harvest celebration day around this time every year.  Typically it revolves around this theme.

OK, maybe not the wrestling part.

This is more like it.

 

My job (inside where it's Air Conditioned) was to cut the grapes from the shoots.  That went pretty well and the buckets when full got dumped into the crusher.  Once that was full, the juice and the crushed solids gets pumped into the vats, and the wine making process gets started.

It was a lot of physical work, but still interesting and kinda fun. 

 

Finally, two things happened, one, the grapes that had been picked were now in the vat, beginning the process with the crushing of the grapes.

 

 

And, two, we got to try some of last year's whites. 

(Reds take a couple of years at least before they're ready to drink. Whites are generally ready the next season.) 

So...we had that going for us.

But,  this may be the last time for this.  Our winemaker and wife are pushing 85 and 78 respectively. So the vineyard and winery are up for sale. 

If any of you folks out there are interested...I'd be happy to introduce you.

How many wineries are there IN Texas, juvat? Well, according to this site there are 200+ currently, making Texas the fifth largest producer in the US.

Well...

Source:

 

I'm in the middle of the cluster just north of San Antonio and west of Austin

Peace out y'all!

Reequipping, Refueling, and Rest

(Source)

"Hey Corp, what's all this junk behind your position?" Private Ian Sullivan was digging around through the interior of the tank. This was his first look inside. Behind the 75 mm gun position there was a lot of loose kit underneath a tarp. Though he was new to the tank business, even he knew that seldom was space wasted inside one of these expensive fighting vehicles.

McTavish poked his head inside the hatch next to the 75, "Just spare odds and ends, I 'spose, I ain't had a chance tae really dig into her yet."

At that moment, their new lieutenant was walking by, he was busy trying to get his new platoon organized and moving. So far he had three crews and was expecting one more. He had heard McTavish and wondered what "odds and ends" he was talking about.

"Corporal."

"Sah!"

Lieutenant Wellesley leaned into the hatch, then turned to McTavish, "Get that rubbish out of there. You're blocking access to the loader's seat and your ammunition stowage."

"I get a loader?" McTavish asked, somewhat puzzled.

"What, d'ye think the Yanks would waste space inside a tank? You've never crewed one of these, have you?"

"Nae, Sir, first time."

Wellesley shook his head, "I've got a manual for the beast, I'll get you one. Where's your tank commander?"

As he said that O'Connell came around the rear of the vehicle, "Right here, Sir."

"Ah yes, once you get your lads sorted, and get that mess out of your tank, come over to the gate. We'll be moving first thing in the morning. I'm expecting another crew shortly."

"Sir!"

"Get cracking lads, the Huns are coming this way."

(Source)

The fuel trucks had come up shortly after the sun had set. Hoffmeister and his crew busied themselves getting their own Panzer refueled, then Hoffmeister had seen to the rest of the platoon, telling his own crew to prepare their rations.

As he walked over to Unteroffizier Baumann's Panzer, he could feel the temperature start to drop. It didn't take long for that to happen after the sun went down. For the moment he let the cooler air wash over him, it felt good after the heat of the day.

Baumann climbed down off of his vehicle and met Hoffmeister, "So Willi, are we moving on tomorrow?"

"No, we're waiting for the Italians, from what I understand. Apparently the Commando Supremo in Rome has had a change of heart about supporting us. Benghazi fell quickly and the English don't seem to have much between here and the Egyptian border."

Baumann shook his head, "We never even came close to seizing Tobruk last year, we need it, Benghazi is a terrible port."

"Ah, so you're a sailor now?" Hoffmeister scoffed.

"You may laugh, Willi. Before the war I was a merchant seaman for a Greek line. We sailed these waters. I know every port between Tripoli and Haifa."

"I didn't know that Ferdinand. Were you drafted?"

"In '38, just in time to roll into Austria. Well, our Panzer broke down, we went into Vienna by truck. Still rolling though."

"That it is."

Hoffmeister reached into his tunic for a cigar, offering one to Baumann as he searched for his matches.

"That stuff will kill you, Willi." Baumann waved off the offer of a cigar.

"Before the English get a chance?"

Baumann laughed, "Probably not."

Willi smiled as he lit his cigar, "Gute Nacht, Ferdinand."

Baumann nodded as he turned to rejoin his own crew, "Schlaf Gut, Willi. Bis Morgen.¹"

Bonus content, inside the M3 Grant

¹ Sleep well, Willi. Until morning. (Can also be translated, "Until tomorrow.")

There and Back Again¹ ...

OAFS Photo

First off, thought I'd share a few photos I took after take-off on Tuesday evening. The weather up and down the East Coast was a little iffy that day, but it cleared enough for us to get from BWI to PVD (Baltimore to Providence for you non-air travelers).

The air crew kept everyone in their seats for the hour-long trip as it was expected to be bumpy. Didn't feel bumpy to me, but what do I know, flying on C-130s prepared me for this. I guess. The co-pilot apologized for the bumps when I thanked him for the ride.

I said, "Come on, that wasn't bad."

He started to speak, then saw my USAF retired hat, decided to let me live with my delusions. Flight attendant found the exchange amusing.

At any rate, it was a lovely evening and I enjoyed the ride. Even on a commercial airliner, once I'm in the air, all the nonsense falls away. (Put me in a middle or aisle seat and you better be ready to sedate me, argh, but I get cranky). At the window, I'm "out there" in the clouds.

OAFS Photo

At one point I counted three layers of cloud, one well below, broken as you can see below. Then there was the layer we were in and out of during the trip. When that layer got broken I was "cloud surfing." Though more fun in daylight, it's fun at dusk as well.

OAFS Photo

There was another layer, well above our altitude (which I think was announced as 36,000 feet, give or take an angel). All in all a delightful flight.

In Other News ...

Had my left eyeball polished Friday afternoon ...

Uh, what?

Okay, not really. After cataract surgery things can get cloudy again, the doctor uses a laser to clean things up, sort of. Well, this explains it better -

Posterior capsulotomy (or YAG laser capsulotomy) is laser surgery you might need sometime after cataract surgery. It helps you see clearly if your vision becomes cloudy again.

When you have cataract surgery, your ophthalmologist removes your eye's cloudy lens. They replace it with a clear, artificial intraocular lens (IOL). The IOL is held in place in the eye’s natural lens capsule. Weeks, months or years later, this capsule can become cloudy or wrinkled, causing blurry vision. This is called a posterior capsule opacification (PCO). It’s also sometimes called a "secondary cataract" or "scar tissue." With posterior capsulotomy, a laser is used to make an opening in the cloudy capsule. This allows light to pass through again for clear vision. (Source)

The doctor uses a machine like this -

(Source)

You see lately, my left eye has been blurry and cloudy, it's like someone smeared Vaseline all over it. So I went to have the procedure done.

Now the left eye is a lot more clear. Still doesn't focus well (and it never will after the retina was damaged a few years back) but it's way better than it was.

For that I am thankful.

Truly.

More tanks on the morrow, need to rest that sensor.

Be well.

¹ Avec mes excuses à J.R.R. Tolkien (Weren't expecting French, were you?)

Reunion

Grant tanks of 5th Royal Tank Regiment on the move in the Western Desert, 17 February 1942.
(Source)

Sergeant O'Connell was glad to be off the truck, he was even more pleased to discover that he and the lads were getting a new tank, an American model from what he understood. At the moment they were waiting for a vehicle to take them over to the makeshift tank depot outside Sidi Barrani.

(Source)

"So Sarge, what sort of crate are we getting, I heard something about it being a Yank machine? Are they in the war now?" Will O'Shea had relatives in America. They gave him nothing but grief in their letters for being in the "English" army. They were all fervent republicans. He often thought that if they were that bleeding passionate about it, they should have stayed in Ireland. In general, he had a low opinion of Americans.

"It's called an M3 Grant, named after a general in their Civil War. Supposedly it has a 75 mm gun, what's more, it can fire high explosive." O'Connell didn't tell them that the big gun was mounted in a sponson. The main gun, in the turret, was a 37 mm, didn't have the same punch as their old 2-pounder.¹ It was equipped with HE, but from what he'd been told, the round wasn't that effective against infantry. His stance was, "Better'n no HE at all!"

An open-topped Humber pulled up and the driver shouted out, "You chaps need a lift to the tank depot?"

"Right-o, let's go lads!" O'Connell climbed aboard last.

After a 30-minute drive they came up to the "tank depot," which consisted of a couple of maintenance tents, two Bedfords, and what appeared to be twelve tanks. All rather large with a small turret. The main gun was on the other side from where they dismounted.

A sergeant with a clipboard met them at the "gate" (which was simply an opening between the two tents), "You lads with 5 Royal Tanks?"

After checking his list and a short conversation with O'Connell, the sergeant pointed them to a tank sitting by itself. "That's yours right there, T333505. There's a chap working on it, says he's a member of your crew, just got out of hospital."

As they walked over, O'Connell saw a man slide into a hatch on the vehicle. Something about him seemed eerily familiar. As he turned to his crew, about to order them to mount up, the man popped out of the hatch.

"'Bout bloody time, ye daft Irishmen showed up. I cannae drive this bloody thing and man the fecking gun at the same time."

The crew sprinted towards the small Scotsman as he dropped to the ground. It was McTavish, their old gunner².

Panzer 413 lurched to a stop just to the northeast of Benghazi. The sun had gone down moments before and the shadows were gathering. Hoffmeister suspected that they were out of fuel. He'd reported his fuel state about 30 minutes before, but battalion had ordered them to press on. The fuel trucks would catch up when they could.

"Wir haben kein Benzin mehr!³" Fritz Weber reported over the intercom.

"I suspected as much." Hoffmeister answered. "Get out and stretch your legs boys, we might be here a while."

The other tanks in the platoon had halted when he did, over the radio he was going to order them to assume a defensive posture, but his crews knew their business. Most of them were probably running on fumes by now. But they formed up in line abreast, guns facing east, towards where the British were still running down the coast road.

Benghazi was theirs, again. But for the moment they were stopped, logistics were holding them back. Again.

Gefreiter Hans Decker woke up, groggy and in some pain. He looked around, unsure of his surroundings. The last thing he remembered was sitting at his gunner's station soaked in blood, shivering in the desert heat, and hearing his pilot asking if he was going to be all right.

He had passed out shortly after that, his ribs felt bruised, his mouth was dry as a bone, and his right foot itched. He needed to scratch that itch, but he was too groggy to really move any part of his body. He felt detached somehow, yet present at the same time.

He opened his eyes and blinked rapidly, he heard a voice ...

"Oberstabsarzt⁴ Wagner! Decker is awake."

Decker turned towards the voice, he saw an older man, a medical orderly of some sort, he guessed. As he tried to puzzle things out, he felt a hand touch his wrist.

"Ah, I see you're awake Gefreiter. Hopefully your nap was refreshing."

The staff surgeon was in uniform, from what Decker could see, the man had served in the Great War, he had an Iron Cross 1st Class from 1914 pinned to his tunic. He also had a 1914 wound badge, in silver⁵, which made Decker wonder, how did this man get wounded in the first war?

The doctor grinned, "I notice you're 'admiring' my decorations. I was an infantryman in the first war. I didn't become a doctor until after that war. Now rest easy for a moment."

The doctor held Decker's wrist while looking at his watch, he nodded. "Good pulse, you're young and healthy, your recovery should be fine. It's not many who can ..."

Decker remembered, in a panic he sat up, there, at the bottom of the bed he saw ...

He still had both legs.

"So this beast has crew of six?" Fitzhugh asked as he studied the tank's interior. He was sitting in the gunner's seat in the turret, McTavish was seated next to the 75 mm gun.

"The other variant, the Lee, has a crew of seven. In this beast I get to load and fire this gun." McTavish patted the breech of the 75.

Shaking his head, McTavish said, "And you get a loader for the popgun. There's nae justice in the world, laddie."

O'Connell let the men blather on for a few more minutes as he familiarized himself with the commander's position. This damn thing sat up very high, that gun in the sponson, though of a useful caliber, couldn't be used when they were hull down. This would take some getting used to.

"All right lads, I suppose we should be getting orders shortly, when we do ..."

O'Connell heard someone rapping on the steel of the turret, "Anyone home?"

Popping his head out, he looked into the eyes of a very young lieutenant. "Sir?"

"Hullo, I'm Wellesley, your new platoon commander, you must be Sar'nt O'Connell."

"Yes Sir, yes, I am. Have we got orders, Sir?"

"Why yes, yes we do, we're to move up to Bardia. The brigade is reforming there, I reckon we'll push on to Tobruk after that, relieve the garrison and all that."

O'Connell had hoped to have a few days to work out the ways this tank could be used in combat. Looks like we'll be learning on the job, he thought to himself. But at the very least, it was good to have McTavish back. Damned good.

¹ The 37 mm gun on the Grant fired a shell weighing less than a pound and a half.

² Last seen in Riposte in the Desert.

³ We're out of petrol.

⁴ Senior staff surgeon, equivalent to a Major.

⁵ The silver grade was awarded for three or four wounds suffered in action.