Battle of Kursk Read online

  Tom Zola

  Battle of Kursk

  Panzers

  Push for Victory

  Book I

  Published by EK-2 Publishing GmbH

  Friedensstraße 12

  47228 Duisburg

  Germany

  Registry court: Duisburg, Germany

  Registry court ID: HRB 30321

  Chief Executive Officer: Felix Julius Raasch

  E-Mail: [email protected]

  Website: www.ek2-publishing.com

  All rights reserved

  Paperback printed by Kindle Direct Publishing (Amazon)

  Cover art: Pete Ashford

  Author: Tom Zola

  Translated from German by Johanna Ellsworth, M.A.

  English translation edited by Mary Jo Rabe

  Final editing: Jill Marc Münstermann

  Proofreading: Felix Julius Raasch, Peter Brendt, Richard Moncure

  Cover Design: Jan Niklas Meier

  German Editor: Lanz Martell

  Innerbook: Jan Niklas Meier

  Paperback ISBN: 978-3-96403-025-2

  Kindle ISBN: 978-3-96403-026-9

  2nd Edition, April 2019

  Tom Zola, a former sergeant in the German Army, is a military fiction writer, famous for his intense battle descriptions and realistic action scenes. In 2014 the first book of his PANZERS series was released in German language, setting up an alternate history scenario in which a different German Reich tries to turn around the fortunes of war at the pinnacle of the Second World War. Zola doesn’t beat around the bush; his stories involve brutal fighting, inhuman ideologies and a military machine that overruns Europe and the whole world without mercy. He has developed a breathtaking yet shocking alternate timeline that has finally been translated into English.

  Zola, born in 1988, is married and lives with his wife and two kids in Duisburg, Germany.

  Prolog

  Berlin, German Reich, November 4th, 1942

  On the outskirts of Mezhove, Soviet Union, April 13th, 1943

  North of Oryol, Soviet Union, April 14th, 1943

  Oboyan, Soviet Union, April 17th, 1943

  Outside Mezhove, Soviet Union, April 18th, 1943

  Lucerne, Switzerland, April 18th, 1943

  North of Ponyri, Soviet Union, May 3rd, 1943

  East of Stroitel’, Soviet Union, May 3rd, 1943

  North of Ponyri, Soviet Union, May 3rd, 1943

  Prokhorovka, Soviet Union, May 3rd, 1943

  East of Stroitel’, Soviet Union, May 3rd, 1943

  North of Ponyri, Soviet Union, May 3rd, 1943

  East of Stroitel’, Soviet Union, May 3rd, 1943

  North of Ponyri, Soviet Union, May 3rd, 1943

  South of Osërovka, Soviet Union, May 3rd, 1943

  North of Ponyri, Soviet Union, May 3rd, 1943

  Southeast of Lutshki I, Soviet Union, May 3rd, 1943

  Prokhorovka, Soviet Union, May 4th, 1943

  Lucerne, Switzerland, May 4th, 1943

  West of Ponyri, Soviet Union, May 4th, 1943

  Lutshki I, Soviet Union, May 4th, 1943

  West of Ponyri, Soviet Union, May 4th, 1943

  Lutshki I, Soviet Union, May 5th, 1943

  Ponyri, Soviet Union, May 5th, 1943

  Southwest of Prokhorovka, Soviet Union, May 6th, 1943

  Southwest of Prokhorovka, Soviet Union, May 6th, 1943

  Near Olchovatka, Soviet Union, May 6th, 1943

  Belp, Switzerland, May 7th, 1943

  Near Olchovatka, Soviet Union, May 8th, 1943

  Belp, Switzerland, May 8th, 1943

  South of Kursk, Soviet Union, May 10th, 1943

  North of Kursk, Soviet Union, May 11th, 1943

  Plakhino, Soviet Union, May 12th, 1943

  Birsfelden, Switzerland, May 14th, 1943

  West of Kursk, Soviet Union, May 16th, 1943

  Bern, Switzerland, May 16th, 1943

  Kursk, Soviet Union, May 18th, 1943

  South of Kursk, Soviet Union, May 26th, 1943

  Southwest of Poltava, Soviet Union, May 26th, 1943

  Aftermath

  Acknowledgement

  Note from Tom Zola

  Glossary

  Wehrmacht ranks

  Overview of military units in the Wehrmacht

  Map of the salient of Kursk

  Prolog

  Autumn ruled Europe with all its might, and cool breezes swept across Lower Austria when a sturdy man with a receding hairline stepped up to the front door of a noble estate. The night had the new section of Vienna in its grip. The man, wearing a dark coat, lifted his right hand to knock on the door but then he froze. Jumpy, he glanced around; nevertheless, the streets were empty.

  The man’s left hand tightened its grip around the handles of his tote bag, and finally he knocked on the door – quietly, as if he was afraid that someone outside the house might hear him. He heard steps inside the house moving towards the door.

  Seconds turned into eternities. Again the man glanced all around; far away, a dog was barking. Instinctively he pulled his coat shut as if it could protect him from assailants or even just unwanted confidants. No doubt about it, Erhard Milch had put himself in mortal danger.

  Finally the door opened and a man in his early fifties with angular features stuck out his head. He scrutinized the visitor briefly, blinked, and let him inside.

  “Moin[1], Erwin,” Milch whispered in his typical Northern German dialect, reaching out to shake his host’s hand. The latter clicked his heels, and only after having saluted raggedly did he shake Milch’s hand. Then Field Marshal Erwin Rommel’s face, which usually was so serious, actually broke into a smile.

  He quickly ushered his visitor into the living room where yet another man was already waiting for them. Rommel introduced him as Erwin von Witzleben, a fellow field marshal. They shook hands; then the three of them sat down at the dining table, a massive piece of wood with elaborately carved legs.

  Von Witzleben, whose thinning hair was barely able to cover his scalp, went right to the heart of the matter. “Show us what you’ve got.”

  With a nod Milch opened his tote bag and took out a large envelope that was stuffed so full it looked as if it was about to burst. He put it down on the table top and pushed it towards Rommel and von Witzleben. The latter opened the envelope and took out a thick stack of documents and photos. Rommel immediately picked up the document on top titled “Lager Dachau”. At the same time von Witzleben examined the photos and his eyes grew bigger.

  “The Luftwaffe uses the camp for test purposes but since the SS has also been there, horrible things have started to happen in the camp,” Milch commented, though the photos more than spoke for themselves. The pictures bitterly confirmed the awful premonitions of several German officers: The Nazis had started to murder whole groups of the population.

  “The GröFaz and his gang have finally gone too far. This … this has nothing to do with war anymore,” von Witzleben whispered in a trembling voice. Rommel, who would never say anything negative about his superiors – not even about him – nodded, his lips pressed together, which for him was a telling gesture. The three men stared at each other. In that moment they were united by one and the same idea.

  Berlin, German Reich, November 4th, 1942

  It was already after three a.m.; yet in the window of a small apartment in Berlin-Lichterfelde a light was still burning. The last time the city was bombed had been nearly a year ago, and therefore the residents had started to become less cautious again.

  The lit-up room inside the apartment was a spartan furnished bedroom with a narrow bed pushed against one wall – this home had lacked a woman’s touch for much too long.

  An old man in his pajamas sat on the edge of the bed; his forehea
d was covered with drops of sweat, and he was rubbing his eyes. The retired colonel general, Ludwig Beck, was a thin man with a wrinkled face, whose last third of his life was visibly wearing him out. But his physical ailments were not the only thing that kept him from resting. The thoughts spinning around in his head refused to let him fall back asleep. Of course there was also this nebulous fear in him because what he had been doing for years was a dangerous game.

  Finally Beck got up to get a towel from the bathroom so he could dry his sweaty armpits. The cool breeze that flowed in from outside made him shiver.

  He walked past his bedroom window and took in the empty street and the townhouses across the street with one quick glance. Of course Beck also noticed the black Mercedes with the spare tire above the right fender.

  This car had become his around-the-clock companion, and sometimes he wondered if his shadows from the Gestapo still thought they were acting under cover or if it was perhaps part of their perfidious method of intimidation to constantly present themselves openly and brazenly.

  Beck returned to his bedroom with his sweat-soaked towel. The dark rings around his eyes gave his face a sagging appearance. His back stooped – he was suffering from arthritis – he stopped at his bedroom window and peered out at the street and the row houses that had been built between 1871 and 1918. Suddenly Beck froze. He blinked; his heart started to hammer in his throat, threatening to strangle him. He swallowed hard and tugged at his Adam’s apple while fresh beads of sweat appeared on his brow. The scenario he glimpsed in the street confirmed that his mixed activities would definitely come to an end now: The interior of the Mercedes was empty, but now two dark figures were marching straight up the street towards Beck’s house.

  Look at those black leather coats and hats, the old colonel general thought, sniffling audibly. They call it plain clothes. But nobody runs around dressed like that.

  Beck quickly put his fear and terror behind him and had his body functions under control again. He was still able to breathe and could still stand up – that’s all he needed in this situation. He straightened his suffering lower back and felt that it had had to carry his body for much too long. Then he wandered over to the closet and pulled a shirt and a pair of pants out of his neat stacks of clothes. The least he could do was to face his judge in dignified clothes – and he wanted to face whatever was coming with his head held high and his back straight. Beck knew death was awaiting him – self-determined if he was lucky – but he was willing to pay the price to preserve his principles. He had done this in full knowledge of the consequences. He would not bend or break his principles just to please this pack of criminals the way so many of his Kameraden had done. While dressing, he was overcome by a rage that agitated his humanistic heart. Oh yes, he was ready! The doorbell rang. A few moments later Beck opened the front door and looked at the rather glum faces of two Gestapo men; one of them was still young, while the other one was in his late forties. The old colonel general had not expected such a sight. Both men lowered their eyes, and it seemed as if their world view was shaken.

  So where had the arrogance of these people gone?

  “Herr General, we have to ask you to come with us,” the older man said in a low voice without looking Beck in the eye. The colonel general nodded soberly and followed them out of his apartment.

  *

  Ludwig Beck entered through a heavy wooden door and found himself again inside the office of Colonel General Friedrich Fromm, commander of the Reserve Army and Head of Armament and War Production. Fromm’s office reflected his exuberant lifestyle unworthy of a German officer. Oil paintings as tall as a man – still-lives depicting open landscapes – hung on the walls, and red curtains covered the windows while the floor was decorated with a large Persian rug. The walls themselves were paneled with blonde wood, pleasantly reflecting the light shimmering through the shades of small lamps that stood on chests and dressers in all four corners. But Beck was not alone – a dozen high-ranking officers were standing in the room, and now that Beck was finally here, their eyes were fixed exclusively on him. The old colonel general froze for a moment and looked into the eyes of his old comrades in their medal-covered uniforms, whose faces mirrored the tension that filled the room. Beck knew most of them, at least fleetingly, and it surprised him to even discover some individuals among the officers who had for all intents and purposes been removed from service. Among them were von Brauchitsch and von Blomberg as well as von Witzleben, Canaris, Milch, Rommel, von Bock, von Leeb. It was as if all of the fronts were silent tonight so that the field marshals of the Reich could meet for a class reunion. If even Rommel was here despite the current situation in Africa, then something really big had to be wrong.

  After a few seconds of reverent silence, von Witzleben stepped out of the group and approached Beck. He stood at attention, raised his hand and saluted respectfully. Beck seconded his salute; then they quickly shook hands.

  “We’re glad you’re here,” von Witzleben started without a hint of irony in his voice.

  Beck again surveyed the grave faces of the other officers and noticed that they agreed.

  “What happened?” He wanted to know right away what was going on – and von Witzleben came straight to the point. “Yesterday morning the Führer’s plane crashed somewhere over Hungary.”

  Beck’s eyes moved from one tense face to another. Pressing his lips together, a fleeting – very fleeting – smile trembled across his face.

  “Gentlemen, I must admit I really didn’t think you would muster the courage in the end to finish the matter off. I am impressed.” Beck nodded. Though he had not been let in on their secret, that didn’t matter now. Suddenly he could see better times for Germany in the future.

  “No.” von Witzleben’s voice put a sudden stop to Beck’s contemplations. “You don’t understand. The Führer had an accident.”

  Beck’s confusion did not go unnoticed by the others. “As you know, the officer corps started to work out a plan for a coup,” Milch interjected. “But that takes time. However, we didn’t expect to take control before the middle of next year.”

  Beck’s eyes widened in surprise. “That means ...” he started without having to finish the sentence.

  “Correct,” von Witzleben nodded. The field marshal began to wring his hands. “It really was an accident. And now we’re here – confronted with a fait accompli without being in control of the situation. There are no plans concerning his successor. The whole country – everything is aligned so much towards the person of the Führer that we have to tread very carefully now.”

  An important thought suddenly crossed Beck’s mind. “What about the others?” he asked sharply.

  Now Fromm weighed in on the conversation as the huge officer took a step forward. “Don’t worry; they’ve been taken out. The ’Reichsheini’ figured he could exploit the situation and seize power here in Berlin. My men put an end to his pitiful attempted coup last night and detained him. And the fat pig … well, he’s now collecting his jail medal here in Berlin.” Some of those present grinned briefly. “Clubfoot is under house arrest in his apartment.”

  Beck gave a grimace. At least that’s a start, he thought, and then said, “But that’s not the whole gang yet.”

  “That’s what we need you for, Herr General.” An almost beseeching undertone was audible in von Witzleben’s voice. Beck noticed that Rommel gave a slow nod. Von Witzleben continued, “If we don’t act fast, chaos will break out throughout the country. All of the opportunists will come crawling out of the woodwork to get their piece of the pie, and that’s why we have to form a stable government today. Otherwise we can forget it.”

  Beck nodded and recognized where they were heading toward.

  “But a stable government can only succeed if we present the public with a personality who is widely popular. And that’s where you come in.”

  Beck and von Witzleben looked each other in the eye.

  “General, we need you! And that’s why we want
to offer you the position of president of the new government of the Reich.”

  Beck’s heart pounded wildly in his chest. In just one moment everything had changed – suddenly there was hope again.

  “Gentlemen,” he replied. “I’m at your service.” As soon as these words were spoken, part of the tension in the room evaporated noticeably. Beck took off his coat and hung it up on the coat rack by the door because he wanted to get started immediately.

  “There are two things that have priority over everything else,” he began, straightening his back as if to intimidate the other officers. “First of all we initiate cease-fire negotiations with all of our enemies immediately. Second...”

  The officers looked at each other until Rommel interrupted the increasingly enthusiastic Beck. “Herr General, at this point I must step in. We want you as the president of our Reich, not as the chancellor. Field Marshal von Witzleben will manage the future of our nation as chancellor. We want you to personally ensure the necessary political stability and cover the new government’s back. Nothing more, nothing less than that.”

  All of a sudden Beck was isolated again. He faced a front of warmongers, but then Rommel explained the intentions of the officer corps to him: “You see, Herr General, the situation certainly isn’t easy but we have to put the straight facts on the table.” Now Rommel stepped up to Beck, looking right at him. The officer’s straight posture and his sharply angular features made him appear incredibly commanding – even for the older Beck who was very experienced with people. Rommel was one of a kind, a man whose charisma you could only escape with difficulty.

  “Look at who our enemies are.” Rommel’s Swabian dialect echoed from the walls. “With Stalin in the East and Churchill in the West, we can’t expect anything from peace negotiations. On the day the English declared war, Churchill himself said that his goal was to wipe out Germany. That’s what he continues to say. And we can forget about Stalin. So please don’t close your eyes to reality.”