SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror

The Shrine David W. Amendola

“All right, Schultz, stop here.”

The Mark III ground to a halt on the hill crest, engine growling in idle. Dust powdered the tank’s steel armor, subduing its dark gray paint and the black-and-white German cross on the side. The turret bore the white number 525. On the front hull was a yellow Y with two ticks — the emblem of the 9^th Panzer Division.

Stretching to the horizon was bleak, empty steppe, tall grass rippling in the moaning breeze like an endless, brown ocean. The relentless afternoon sun blazed orange in a cloudless sky. About three hundred meters away, stark and alone at the bottom of a flat, shallow valley, stood a little church of white stone, its black onion dome topped by the three-barred cross of the Russian Orthodox Church.

Sergeant Langer, the tank commander, stood in the cupola and pushed up his dirty goggles. He wiped his tanned, sweaty face and scanned the church with binoculars.

“Looks deserted,” he said into the throat microphone of the intercom.

The voice of Private Schultz, the driver, came over his headphones. “So what do we do?”

“Secure the area and wait, those are the orders. A special detachment is supposed to rendezvous with us.”

“I hope so, Herr Sergeant,” said Private Koch, the radioman, who sat below in the front hull next to the driver. “We’re way out of radio range now.”

“They needed someone here in a hurry and we were the only ones available,” said Langer. “Everyone else is pushing to link up with Guderian and cut off Kiev.”

“Lucky us,” said Private Hoppe, the loader, raising his voice so he could be heard above the engine noise. The tank was open for ventilation and he sat halfway out of the left turret hatch. “If Ivan decides to show up we’ll have problems.” Ivan was slang for the Russians.

That prompted a grunt of agreement from Corporal Meyer, the gunner, sitting in the right turret hatch. A grunt was his usual contribution to any conversation.

“Well, hopefully Ivan is more worried about Kiev right now,” said Langer.

“Hopefully,” said Hoppe.

“War’s almost over anyway,” said Koch. “In a month Stalin will be finished, we’ll march in a victory parade in Moscow, and then we can go home to Vienna.”

The crew was Austrian, like everyone else in 9^th Panzer. After their country had been annexed by Hitler in 1938 it was renamed Ostmark, they were declared citizens of the Reich, and their military was absorbed by the German Army.

By now — early September 1941 — they were veterans of Hitler’s wars. All of them had earned the Panzer Combat Badge for having been in at least three tank battles. They had fought together in the Netherlands and France the previous year, then in Greece and Yugoslavia last spring before the division was shipped east for the invasion of the Soviet Union.

Langer and his men did not question the rationale for it all. The Führer commanded; they obeyed. Such was the way of things. And thus far they had seen only victories. Germany seemed destined to rule all of Europe.

“Headquarters sent us all the way out here to capture an old church?” asked Schultz. “What’s so special about it, Herr Sergeant?”

“The lieutenant didn’t say. Strange place for one though. According to the map there isn’t a village within a hundred kilometers.” Langer twisted around and raised his binoculars. “Looks like our colleagues have arrived.”

A gray column of vehicles rumbled up a dirt road behind them, brown-red dust rising in a choking cloud in its wake. In the lead was a sidecar motorcycle. It was followed by a heavy eight-wheeled 231 armored car, a Volkswagen field car, half a dozen three-ton Opel Blitz transport trucks, a communications truck, and an anti-aircraft gun mounted on a halftrack. A light 222 armored car brought up the rear. One truck had a Nazi flag spread over its top for air recognition.

Langer noted the double lightning-bolt runes emblazoned on the registration plates.

“SS,” he said. “Can’t tell which unit.”

“A sun wheel swastika is the Viking Division and a key on a shield is the Hitler Bodyguard Regiment,” said Koch. “Those are the two Waffen-SS units in the Ukraine right now.”

“I don’t see any insignia at all. Not even a tactical symbol. Odd.”

They watched the convoy pull up behind the hill. Their platoon commander, Lieutenant Krugmann, climbed out of his tank and walked down to the Volkswagen. He exchanged salutes with two officers riding in the back. They conferred briefly and Krugmann returned to his tank.

His crisp voice came over the FuG 5 radio. “Provide overwatch while the building’s cleared.”

The platoon’s five tanks stood ready on the hill as an infantry squad jumped down from the trucks. Each soldier was clad in the field-gray uniform of the German Army but with the collar runes, cuff title, and sleeve eagle of the Waffen-SS. The cuff title would indicate their unit, but at this distance Langer could not read it.

The church had one entrance, a heavy, iron-bound wood door. There were no windows. The squad circled around the hill to approach it obliquely, an SS-Sergeant in the lead followed by a machine-gun team and several riflemen. Upon reaching it they edged along the front wall to the door. The sergeant kicked it in and charged inside, followed by the others.

Half a minute later he emerged and held up his weapon to signal all-clear, followed by shrill blasts on his whistle. In response the SS vehicles rolled up to the church and parked.

“Form a hedgehog,” said Krugmann. The tanks fanned out into a defensive ring around the valley, facing outwards. “We’ll be escorting the convoy back once they’re finished here. Everyone can relax in the meantime, but stay alert.”

Engines switched off. The silence was deafening as Meyers, Hoppe, Koch, and Schultz emerged, grateful to get out of the hot, stinking tank. Because of the heat they had stripped off their black wool jackets and just wore the gray shirts, sleeves rolled up.

The other tank crews were taking advantage of the lull to get fresh air, stretch cramped legs, and relieve themselves. Shadows lengthened as dusk neared.

Meyer munched on sausage. Despite being as skinny as a rail he seemed to have a bottomless pit for a stomach and never passed up a chance to eat. Schultz hopped on the rear deck and popped open a maintenance hatch. Grit was always getting into the engine and he fretted and fussed over his “Liebling.” Langer stayed in the cupola, observing the activity at the church through his binoculars.

“Who’s the fat one?” asked Koch. “He looks like he’s on parade.”

Langer focused on the Volkswagen. The two officers had stepped out. One was tall and lean and wore the collar tab of an SS Captain. The other was an SS Colonel, a rotund, spectacled man dressed in the prewar black SS uniform complete with shiny jackboots and red swastika armband. His bulging uniform looked crisp and new and boasted no decorations at all. He hardly seemed to fit the idealized SS image with its emphasis on physical fitness.

“Must be an SS part-timer who still has the old uniform,” said Langer. “His rank’s probably honorary. Civilians have to wear uniforms in occupied territory so this may be the first time he’s actually had to put it on.”

Hoppe snorted with contempt. Digging out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, he lit one and passed the rest around.

They watched as the SS officers gazed up at the church, the captain pointing out various details while the colonel bobbed his head in agreement. Once the latter was satisfied, the former barked out orders. Moving at double-time, a second squad dismounted and hauled out equipment and crates, carrying them inside. One truck towed a generator trailer; a power cable was unreeled and run into the church.

“What’s in there?” asked Koch, swatting a fly on his neck. “Supplies?”

“No idea,” said Langer. “Seems too small to store much though.”

“Maybe loot,” said Schultz, closing the maintenance hatch. “Icons and so forth.”

“Souvenirs for Herr Göring’s art collection,” said Hoppe, a sour look on his face.

Hermann Göring, commander-in-chief of the German Air Force, was notorious for his extravagant lifestyle and took full advantage of Hitler’s conquests to appropriate whatever valuables he could from the occupied territories.

The sun sank into its pyre in the west and a gibbous moon glowered down like a gleaming skull. The night was quiet except for the rattling drone of the generator, the church door outlined by a strong light inside.

The generator sputtered and stopped; the light blinked off.

A horrific bedlam of screams rang out.

The crews scrambled into their tanks, banging hatches shut. Engines roared into fierce life, spouting exhaust; turrets swiveled to aim at the church.

The screaming ceased.

A long, tense silence. Then the radio crackled. “I’ve lost contact,” snapped Krugmann. “Five-two-five, investigate and report!”

Langer repeated and acknowledged the order and dropped down into the turret. Schultz swung the Mark III around, keeping the headlights off. Langer looked through the cupola’s visor as they rumbled down the slope, wheels and tracks squeaking and clanking. Hoppe opened an ammunition locker, ready to load armor-piercing or high explosive shells as Meyer peered through the 50-millimeter cannon’s telescopic sight. Koch double-checked the ammunition belt of his MG34 machine-gun in the bow.

The tank stopped just short of the parked SS vehicles, silhouettes in the pale moonlight. All was still — still as a tomb. The only sound was the tank’s engine.

Langer opened the cupola. “Herr Colonel?” he called out. “Herr Captain? Anyone?”

No answer.

“Dammit, we’re going to have to get out and check,” he said. “Meyer, Hoppe, Koch — come with me. Schultz, stay here. Keep the tank buttoned up and the motor running.”

The four crewmen climbed out and buckled on flap holsters holding Walther pistols. Hoppe, Koch and Meyer exchanged looks and drew theirs; Langer unfolded the stock of an MP40 submachine gun and snapped in a long magazine. Led by him, they ventured forward.

They approached the 222 armored car, kneeling beside it. Langer rapped on the hull, but there was no response. Peering inside through the open driver’s visor, he flicked on a flashlight.

Slumped in their seats were all three crewmen — motionless, mouths gaping, eyes fixed in the glassy stare of death. He could not see what killed them, but there was no blood. Langer turned to the others and made a slicing motion across his throat. They hissed profanity.

At Langer’s gesture they moved on. Circling the building, they checked the other vehicles and found the same thing. Dead drivers or crews. After scavenging three more MP40s to better arm themselves, the crew crept up to the church.

The heavy wooden door stood ajar, the generator cable snaking in through the crack. They snapped back submachine gun bolts. Motioning for the others to wait, Langer stepped inside, crouching, finger on the trigger. His eyes darted around, probing the pitch blackness for lurking enemies.

Nothing.

He switched on his flashlight and swept its beam around. Then he lowered his weapon and beckoned for the others to enter. Hardened to the horrors of war, their only outward reaction was to raise eyebrows at the sight their flashlights revealed.

The SS soldiers were sprawled dead across the floor.

Hoppe glanced over the nearest corpses. “Don’t see a mark on them.”

“We didn’t hear any explosions,” said Koch.

“No shots either, and no casings on the floor.”

“So what killed them?”

“I don’t know,” said Langer.

They looked around. The interior did not resemble the layout of an Orthodox church. Normally it would be divided into vestibule, nave, and sanctuary, but there was only a single, domed chamber, empty except for the dead, and the stone walls were completely bare. No altar, no chairs, no icons.

“There’s nothing in here,” said Koch, puzzled.

As Langer stepped among the dead men he scrutinized their uniforms. Sewn on their lower left sleeves was a black diamond bearing a white branched rune, a specialist patch he did not recognize. Below it was a black cuff band with the abbreviation RFSS stitched in silver.

“Reichsführer-SS,” he said. “This is the cuff title for Heinrich Himmler’s personal staff.”

Langer stopped beside the corpse of the colonel and searched the man’s pockets, finding civilian and SS identification cards. They stated he was Doctor Ernst Ziegler, a professor of astronomy. What was an astronomer doing in a war zone?

Deepening the mystery was a special pass declaring that Ziegler, ‘by order of the Reichsführer-SS, carries out research of a special and urgent nature about which the details may not be divulged.’ Cooperation was requested of all civilian, police, and military authorities.

Langer checked the captain next and found a Waffen-SS paybook. It contained a summary of the officer’s military record: personal data, training, promotions, awards, and so forth. Flipping through he learned the man’s current assignment was SS-Sonderkommando Ziegler — SS Special Command Ziegler — which meant nothing to him. The SS routinely created a multitude of temporary task forces for a variety of duties and each was usually named after its commanding officer, in this case the unfortunate colonel.

The captain also carried a leather map case. Glancing inside, Langer saw the security classification and special handling caveat marked on a document cover for something code-named Aktion Kosmisch (Operation Cosmic) and read no further.

He returned to the tank and radioed his findings to the lieutenant.

“Must have been poison gas,” said Krugmann. “A booby trap.”

“We didn’t smell anything unusual,” said Langer, “and the bodies don’t show any of the signs. No burns or blisters, no pale skin. No vomit or diarrhea. It’s like they just dropped dead.”

“What else could have killed them? You say there aren’t any wounds.”

“True, Herr Lieutenant, but if it was gas, why weren’t we affected?”

“It could have dissipated before you got there. Maybe the Russians have developed a new non-persistent agent no one’s heard of before, one that leaves no external symptoms. Put your masks on. And put on gloves before touching anything. I’m coming down there.”

Langer dug out the crew’s M38 gas masks, decontamination tablets, gas capes, and gloves. Telling Schultz to don his mask, he slipped on his own before carrying the rest in to the others. As he passed on the lieutenant’s instructions, Meyer beckoned to him.

He pointed at the floor. It was paved with heavy flagstones and he shone his flashlight down on a large one set in the center. It had an old, faded Cyrillic inscription with what appeared to be a year: 1801.

“Fresh pry marks along the edges,” said Langer, kneeling to examine it more closely. He glanced over at the equipment the SS soldiers had brought in. Much of it was excavating tools: pry bars, hammers, mattocks, shovels, and a block-and-tackle hoist on a tripod had been erected. “They were trying to raise this.”

Hoppe raised an eyebrow. “Grave robbing?”

“Maybe. Can anyone read Russian?” The others shook their heads.

A floodlight had been set up, but when Langer tried to switch it on it did not work. The bulb looked fine, so he went out and checked the generator. Despite having plenty of fuel it would not start. Upon closer inspection the wiring appeared to have melted somehow. The building itself had no electric lighting, only empty wall sconces for candles.

“Get these bodies out of here,” said Langer, arms akimbo. “Tell Schultz to come help.”

Meyer fetched Schultz and the four crewmen began snapping off identification disks and collecting paybooks from the corpses before carrying them outside.

Krugmann strode in with four other tank crewmen, all wearing gas masks and gloves. The others snapped to attention, but he motioned for them to stand at ease. His crew joined Langer’s men in their gruesome task.

Langer handed Krugmann the map case, the identity cards of the two SS officers, and Ziegler’s special pass. The lieutenant switched on his flashlight and inspected them.

“Did you read any of this?” he asked Langer at length, giving him a sharp look.

“Only the identity papers, Herr Lieutenant.”

“Well, this was a unit of SS Special Command Ziegler, a detachment that doesn’t fall under any of the main departments of the SS. It’s part of Himmler’s personal staff.”

“What was it organized for?”

“Seems SKZ was created just before the war for the purpose of ‘retrieving artifacts of special scientific importance from frontline areas.’ They had orders to capture this shrine.”

“What for, Herr Lieutenant?”

“I’m still trying to piece that together. These other documents reference an SS file classified Secret State Material, which for obvious reasons would never be taken out into the field. So this is a redacted summary. One thing’s clear though: the Russians thought the shrine was important too. According to this intelligence report, it’s the only religious building in the area the Communists didn’t demolish. NKVD security troops defended this sector until yesterday when they were pulled back to help defend Kiev. That gave SKZ the chance they needed. Our division was closest so Himmler requested we assist.”

“Why would Stalin’s security police be guarding a religious shrine?”

“Good question. I’ll send a preliminary report to headquarters. I’ll have to use the long-range radio in the communications truck since our tanks’ radios won’t reach.”

Krugmann returned shortly, irritated. “Radio doesn’t work. See if your men can fix it. And get one of the trucks ready. We don’t have room in our tanks to carry anything.”

“Koch, Schultz, take care of it,” said Langer. The pair hurried off.

Krugmann resumed reading. “On April 15, 1801 a meteorite landed here. The czarist authorities investigated, but the findings were kept secret and have never been released. The Holy Synod was so alarmed it ordered everything at the site buried and had this shrine built over it.”

“Why would SKZ be interested in a meteorite?”

“Because when Doctor Ziegler analyzed old news reports he concluded it wasn’t a meteor. He calculated it was traveling too slow and the impact crater was too small. Eyewitnesses claimed it zigzagged across the sky before it hit. Ziegler thought what actually crashed was some kind of craft. But no one’s ever excavated the site to see what’s buried here. The Orthodox Church forbade any digging, a prohibition that’s continued under the Bolsheviks.”

Langer frowned. “There weren’t any aircraft in 1801.”

“No there weren’t.”

“God, what a crazy story.”

“Exactly what our Air Ministry’s technical office and the Army Ordnance research office said. They consider it nonsense from superstitious peasants. After all, when a meteorite blew up over Siberia about thirty years ago the locals thought the destruction was caused by some pagan god. Since the military wasn’t interested Himmler ordered SKZ to get involved. If what’s buried here really was from another planet there might be useful parts left. Recovering advanced technology would be an incredible coup if it could be reverse-engineered into something of military use. And the Reichsführer is always looking for ways to increase his power and influence.”

Koch and Schultz returned. “Herr Lieutenant,” said Koch, “none of the radios in the truck can be repaired. The wires and tubes are burned out and we have no spares.”

“None of the trucks will start either,” said Schultz. “Nor will any of the other SS vehicles. All their electrical systems are shorted-out.”

“I found the same thing when I tried to restart the generator,” added Langer.

Krugmann let out an exasperated sigh. “Then siphon off as much gas as you can for the tanks. No sense leaving it for Ivan.” Krugmann turned back to Langer, “We can assume headquarters would have ordered us to take over Operation Cosmic.”

“What happened to their vehicles?”

“I don’t know.” He pondered this for a few moments. “Never heard of poison gas causing an electrical overload. It can’t have been that after all.” He pulled off his mask. “Go ahead and take them off,” he told the others.

“Why weren’t our tanks affected? Or us?”

“It must have a limited radius.”

“And if we disturb it we’re liable to trigger it again.”

“We’ll have risk it. We’re digging it up, whatever it is.”

“Yes, Herr Lieutenant.” He tried to keep misgivings out of his voice. Orders were orders.

At Krugmann’s direction Langer’s tank was moved back to the hill. Another crew stood watch on the crest, scanning the moonlit steppe for signs of the enemy. The ominous clatter of diesel engines had been heard way off in the distance.

Inside the shrine the flagstone was pried up and ropes were slipped over it. These were hooked to the hoist, moved into position to raise it. The heavy slab rose in slow jerks as the platoon’s strongest men, stripped to the waist, pulled in unison, the pulleys creaking. The atmosphere was tense.

But nothing happened. Under the flagstone was a pit. The slab was swung to one side and lowered onto the floor. Everyone crowded around the edge and shined flashlights down.

A couple meters deep, it was lined with stone like a burial vault. At the bottom were two hollow hemispheres about a meter in diameter, made of a shiny, aluminum-like metal. The outer surfaces were studded with crystalline protuberances resembling the contact detonators of a naval mine. Krugmann jumped down, put on his gloves, and picked one up.

“Well, that’s definitely not a meteorite,” said Hoppe.

“Looks like the halves of a big, hollow ball,” said Koch.

Krugmann set down the hemisphere and shone his flashlight around. He spotted fragments and picked one up. It was a jagged, curved shard of an unknown substance, pale blue and smooth as glass. Clambering back out, he continued his examination, turning the shard over in his gloved hands. He tested its strength. It snapped easily in two.

“Any ideas, Herr Lieutenant?” asked Langer.

Krugmann rubbed his chin. “They probably lifted the slab just enough to see if anything was under there, poked around, and triggered whatever killed them; some anti-tampering device. Then the slab fell back in place.”

“What was in the sphere?”

“No idea. All I found were these pieces.” He turned to the others. “Four of you get down there and start digging. See if anything is buried.”

A ladder was lowered and four men descended with spades and buckets. Handling them carefully, the hemispheres and blue fragments were brought up and laid out on the floor. The men found a hole in one corner, just big enough to admit an adult. The smallest of the men, a lean, wiry fellow, crawled in to take look.

“What’s in there, Hans?” asked a colleague.

“A tunnel of some sort. Has a funny smell.”

Up above, Krugmann stared at the inscription on the flagstone. “I studied Russian at university before the war, so I should be able to translate this,” he said. Frowning, he brought out the SS documents again, looking for a particular reference. When he found it he compared it with the inscription. His scowl deepened.

A slight tremor shuddered through the shrine. Everyone stopped and looked around.

“Earthquake?” an anxious crewman asked.

A second, stronger tremor shook them. The men in the pit scrambled out.

Krugmann’s eyes widened with sudden realization. “Get out of here! Now!”

The crews rushed outside and dashed for their vehicles. Even as they ran the ground heaved beneath their feet again and this time it did not stop. Two men stumbled and fell. Krugmann dragged them to their feet and exhorted them on.

The platoon jumped into the Mark IIIs, relieved the engines were still warm so they could use the electric self-starters instead of standing outside and hand-cranking them. The noise of them firing up was drowned out by a deep rumbling.

“Herr Lieutenant, what’s happening?” asked Langer over the radio. He strained to hear the officer’s reply over the din.

“Fools!” said Krugmann. “Ziegler should have read the inscription. The translation was wrong. It’s a warning from the Holy Synod.”

“What was in the sphere?”

“An egg! Opening the sphere let it hatch!”

Langer twisted around in the cupola to look. Even as he watched a great fissure opened beneath the crumbling shrine and swallowed it up, the SS vehicles tumbling into the yawning abyss after it. The crashes were drowned out by the tremendous roar. A cloud of dust was thrown up, and through it huge slimy tentacles thrust from smoking cracks in the earth. Leprous and gray in the moonlight, ever more limbs sprouted as they grew at an impossible, unearthly rate. A great, reeking stench wafted out.

Then a huge mechanical beast rumbled into view. Langer’s blood froze. It was a Russian heavy tank.

Most of the Soviet tanks they had fought thus far had been obsolete prewar machines. Combined with poor tactics, they proved no match for the panzers. But this was one of the new models, a KV-1, a 47-ton monster with armor so thick the only German weapons currently capable of penetrating it were the big guns of the artillery. And the powerful 76.2-millimeter cannon on the behemoth’s massive turret could easily punch through a Mark III.

Tentacles lunged for the KV-1, coiling around its hull like serpents. Vapor rose as their rows of suckers, apparently secreting some sort of acidic enzyme, started melting through, trying to get at the helpless crew trapped inside.

With blinding speed the thing also turned on the Germans, engulfing four of the Mark IIIs in a storm of flailing tentacles. Langer’s tank, farther back, was ignored for the moment.

“Open fire!” he ordered. “Machine guns only!”

The bow and coaxial machine-guns erupted with buzzing roars as Koch and Meyer slashed at the tentacles entwining the other vehicles. Lines of green tracers streaked across, 7.92-millimeter bullets shredding pale rubbery flesh and splattering sticky blood, ringing and ricocheting off the smoldering steel. The desperate voices of the other tank commanders flooded the radio. The thing, whatever it was, grew new limbs as fast as they were blown off. The voices disintegrated into screams.

Langer’s crew cursed helplessly as the other four German tanks were reduced to corroded, entangled hulks. Hatches were thrown open on a couple, but no one emerged. The radio fell silent. The KV-1 still fought the creature, but tentacles were inexorably dissolving through even its thick armor. The running gear on one side had already melted and collapsed, immobilizing it.

The thing turned its attention to Langer’s tank next. He dropped into the turret and slammed the hatch closed as the Mark III was seized.

“Schultz, get us out of here!”

Schultz shifted into reverse and floored the accelerator pedal. The 300-horsepower Maybach engine bellowed like a bull, but the straining Mark III could not move. He wrenched the steering levers back and forth, desperately trying to wrestle the tank free.

“I can’t break loose!” he said.

The metal around them began to bubble and hiss. More tanks rattled out of the gloom. Through the visor Langer recognized the silhouettes of the T-26, a light Russian tank considered easy meat for German anti-tank gunners. They had destroyed untold numbers of them in battle. Three raced up in what looked to Langer to be a suicide charge, a brave but futile attempt to divert the thing’s attention.

Their gun barrels were shorter than normal. A moment later he realized why when their stubby muzzles aimed upwards and long yellow-white streams of fire jetted out. These were KhT-133 tanks, a flamethrower variant of the T-26 designed for assaulting fortifications.

The slimy tentacles ignited instantly, recoiling as fire flashed along their length and wreathed them in orange flames. Langer’s tank and the KV-1 were released. The blazing, writhing limbs shrank back into the crevasse and disappeared from view. Oily black smoke rose; Langer gagged on an even more horrible stench.

“Burn, you bastard, burn!” said Koch.

Russian infantry, engineers judging from their equipment, jumped down from the tanks and hurried forward to the edge. Langer guessed they would set demolition charges to turn the lair into a tomb, burying the horror forever.

The KV-1’s turret began rotating back towards him.

Langer jerked a cable repeatedly. In rapid succession smoke canisters mounted on a rack at the rear of the Mark III dropped to the ground.

“Back us up!” he said.

Schultz reversed into the thick cloud billowing up. The tank’s front armor was the thickest so he kept that towards the enemy, but he also tried to face it at an angle, giving them a chance that an incoming round might ricochet instead of penetrating.

The KV-1’s cannon boomed and a loud clang deafened the crew. Meyer and Hoppe cried out; hot pain stabbed Langer’s leg. The shell had glanced off, but the impact sprayed spall across the compartment like shrapnel. Moments later a second screeched past, missing entirely, the Russian gunner’s aim spoiled by the smoke screen.

Schultz kept going backwards until they were behind the cover of the hill, then slammed the levers to spin the tank around, the tracks ripping up the dirt. He shifted into forward gear, stomped down the accelerator, and roared off at full speed into the night.

Gritting his teeth against the pain of his wound, Langer watched for signs of pursuit, but saw none. The KV-1 was disabled and the flamethrower tanks were still finishing off the creature. The Germans drove on in silence, shaken by the vision of the nameless thing they had stirred up, thinking of the comrades they had lost — and for what?

As Hoppe opened a first aid kit, Langer sourly reflected that Heinrich Himmler would have to concoct a new scheme to impress the Führer.