Scars of Honor

(From Chapter 1. Enemy Territory West of Rzhev, August 1943)

Dietrich awoke shivering to a cold and rainy dawn. His uniform was damp and uncomfortable, his skin clammy beneath his clothes. Misery draped him like a leaden cape. The bullet wound in his arm ached, but at least it took his mind off his empty stomach.

Peering out at the menacing woods around him, he wondered for a moment if there had ever been a time when he had not been so miserable. A monotonous drizzle fell off and on from a sky the color of weathered wood. The endless Russian sky seemed to be undecided as to whether it should open up and dump torrents of water on him, or just continue to aggravate with its pesky drizzle. In the end it decided to just fill the air with a soft, dewy mist. Cursing the army, the war, and especially the weather, Dietrich sat up and rubbed the crust of sleep from his eyes.

The pain in his arm was bothersome but bearable. The wound, a trough-like indentation from a bullet in his forearm, had scabbed over nicely, and there was as yet no sign of infection, surprising considering the bacteria-laden swamps he had just spent the last 24 hours crawling through. It had been days since he had last seen any partisans, but he was cautious nonetheless. Crawling to the edge of the borough, he scanned the surrounding woods for danger. Wondering how the others had made out, he was amazed at his own escape from the hordes of attacking Russians. Satisfied, he stood and stretched his limbs. After answering the call of nature, he gathered his gear and stepped out into the morning mist.

The mist soon turned back to drizzling rain and he was once again soaked. He cursed the rain. Would it ever quit? He cursed Germany and Russia and everyone in the Wehrmacht above the rank of corporal. He tried to remember the last time he had a bath. Weeks? Months?

After walking several hours, the rain stopped and the sun peeked timidly through ominous clouds. Alert for attacking aircraft, he kept a wary eye on the hazy sky as he walked; every one on the ground looked the same from the air.

At noon the sun broke boldly through the clouds, sending bright shafts of sunlight cascading down through the trees like stage lights in a brightly lit theater. Mist soon began to arise from the rotted leaves and matted pine needles as the earth began to dry. The pleasant chirp and whistle of birdsong punctuated the air, reminding him of more peaceful times. He was looking for a place to pull up when he heard gunfire. Heart pounding, he raced up a nearby hill to investigate. The gunfire was now interspersed with the sharp crack of a tankgun.

Had he reached the front?

When he reached the top of the hill, a fantastic scene greeted him from the valley below. Near a ruined farmhouse sat a lone Russian T-34 medium tank, hatches closed and turret pivoting from left to right, blasting away at something in the trees to its front. The tank fire was met with a barrage of small-arms and panzerfaust fire. One of the T-34's tracks was blown off, leaving it crippled yet still very much lethal. A troop carrier burned nearby, a platoon of dead Soviet infantry strewn about it.

The T-34's maingun soon ran out of ammo. Its machinegun rattled on a few moments longer, then it too fell silent. The fire from the woods ceased. An eerie silence settled over the valley as the smoke slowly dissipated. Dietrich held his breath and stared intently at the woods, where the as yet unseen opponents of the Soviet tank lurked. A metallic clang suddenly rang out as hatches were thrown open. Like rats escaping a burning house, the Soviet crew poured from the disabled tank in a desperate bid for freedom. The guns in the woods opened fire again. The loader made it as far as the banks of a narrow creek before going down in a hail of lead. As the hull machinegunner ran for a nearby woodline, bullets whipped up the dirt at his feet and shredded the foliage around him. Incredibly, he survived and made it to the sanctuary of the trees, where he quickly disappeared into their welcoming embrace. The shooting stopped and the echo of gunfire rolled up and down the small valley.

The Soviet tank commander was the last to exit the tank, but he was in no hurry. Already wounded, he had seen the fate of his comrades and had no illusions as he emerged from his tank to face his enemy. Pausing momentarily in the hatch to allow his eyes to grow accustomed to the bright sunlight after the smoky interior of the tank, he squinted uncertainly at his foe.

The courage displayed by this single Russian seemed to impress his unseen opponents. Amazed, they held their fire. In the woods a landser brought his mauser up to shoot, but his sergeant grasped his rifle and gently lowered the muzzle.

'Easy, Klouser; this one we'll take alive.'

(607 pages)