Typhoon Over Moscow
by
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Senior Lieutenant Nozhkin looked over his shoulder as the last of his men cleared the woods and bore down on the enemy. There was a terrific explosion just to his rear. The bridge had been demolished. He chose to ignore it. It was too late now to stop the attack he was already committed. The skis were allowing them to close in on their opponents swiftly and silently. In short time, they would be right on top of the huddled bundles of rags defending the ruins. A few sharp bursts of machine gun fire and a hearty ‘Hurrah!’ from his men and the pathetic ‘Winter Fritzes’ would be scurrying like rats.
Sergeant Karpov barked out the orders for the squad leaders to deploy. First platoon’s Second squad was leading the attack as the Lieutenant had been using the first squad as a scout detachment. They would follow the second squad today.
There was the pop of a German parachute flare and within seconds the entire area was lit up as bright as day. He heard the distinct crump of a German mortar. The round hit just meters to his left and several of his men tumbled over in a heap. Where did they get the mortar from he wondered? The bark of a German MG-34 machine gun brought his attention back to the front. The rounds walked their way up into his line spraying the men with deadly lead, snow, and debris. The skier next to him buckled at the knees dropping to the ground clutching his chest. He made a mental note to sit down with Sergeant Karpov after the assault and discuss the finer points of intelligence gathering.
The lieutenant ducked as the pesky mortar rounds found their range and another handful of his men toppled over. He skied over a dark red patch in the snow and cursed under his breath.
An explosion rocked him off his skis tossing him down onto the frozen earth. A panting Sergeant Karpov flopped down next to him. Karpov rolled to his side, un-slung his sub-machine gun, and fired off a controlled burst. “Second and Third platoons have bunched up too close. Our lead platoon has been completely knocked out nearly 100% casualties!”
“Damn it sergeant, if we can’t close the distance they will have our heads for certain!” cried Nozhkin over the din of battle. The lieutenant looked over his left shoulder back towards the woods from where they had emerged only moments ago. They had come too far to turn back. The Germans would cut them to pieces before they made it halfway back up the exposed slope. They would need to ditch the skis and plod ahead on foot through the near thigh deep snow. Not an ideal prospect.
The sergeant grabbed a fresh drum magazine and inserted it into his weapon. He looked to either side of him. The entire company had now gone to ground and all forward movement had ceased. A bullet snicked at his camouflage snowsuit sleeve. He spotted the body of the squad’s light machine gunner. Karpov belly crawled over and grabbed the petrified assistant gunner by the collar. “You!” he shouted. “Can you work the gun?” The wide-eyed boy could only manage a slight nod. “Good, he grabbed the private by the back of his neck and turned his head towards the bright tongue of flame spouting from the German heavy machine gun. “Lay down some covering fire on that position! The boy nodded and inched his way over to the gun. He pried it from the bloody hands of the dead gunner and placed the bipod up on a tiny stump and squeezed the trigger.
“Good work sergeant,” shouted the lieutenant. He nodded towards several men who were up and had started to move forward under the cover of the machine gun. “We can’t stay out here much longer or they are going to annihilate us!” Nozhkin had weighed the options and came up with the only possible conclusion. He turned towards the sergeant with a sly grin on his face. “So, Sergeant Karpov, have you still have one more heroic charge for the Motherland left in your system?”
The grizzled veteran looked back at the lieutenant and smiled wryly. “Comrade Company Commander, I think these old bones can muster one up,” he shrugged. “For old times, sake of course.”
“My friends call me Stepan,” the lieutenant smiled again and patted his sergeant on the shoulder. “Well, if this doesn’t work out, I guess I will be seeing you in one of the penal battalions!”
The last statement caused the husky sergeant to laugh out loud. “If this doesn’t work out, I will be seeing you in Hell, Stepan!” He pulled himself up to his knees and fired a quick burst from his machine gun in the direction of the ruins.
Nozhkin unsnapped his leather holster and slowly raised his pistol into the air. He grabbed the whistle dangling from its lanyard, took in a deep breath, and with a shriek the attack was on again.
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About the Book
During the predawn hours of June 22, 1941 over 3.5 million German troops and thousands of tanks, planes, and armored vehicles slammed into the Soviet Union’s Western Frontier. Hitler’s Operation Barbarossa had begun and stretched on a front spanning nearly 2,000 kilometers from north to south. The opening weeks of the ‘Great Patriotic War’ as it is known in Russia, were an unmitigated disaster for the Red Army. Brave soldiers like Lieutenant Alexander Semenov and General Nikolai Petrenko struggled heroically to shore up their country’s defenses and halt Germany’s three-pronged advance, the center of which was aimed right at the very heart and capital of their beloved motherland, Moscow. With the entire civilian population mobilized, thousands of men, women, and children, toiled without rest digging fortifications and deep anti-tank trenches out of the rich black soil of Mother Russia. Industrial workers from across the country labored to crate every piece of equipment, not already in German hands, and shipped them east to the Urals out of harm’s way. Thousands of vital war industries, large and small, sprung up from the frozen earth and within weeks were producing the vital tools needed to bring the fight to the Fascists invaders. As far as the German Army was concerned, the drive east into the depths of Russia was little different from any of her previous conquests. However, true professional soldiers the likes of Colonel Wilhelm Eichorn knew better. Russia was a vast country with an unforgiving climate. If the campaign to destroy the Soviet field army and capture Moscow was not completed before the onset of the next brutal Russian winter, disaster was certain. The annals of history were littered with the wreckage of armies that learned getting into Russia was easy, getting out was not. As fall neared and the German summer successes began to fade, Hitler mustered his forces for one final decisive push to seize Moscow and end the war. Operation Typhoon had begun.
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